Black Flood: Tales of the Trolloc Wars
by Halfhand
Summary: An Epic tale of the Band of Red Hand--their titanic struggles, sacrifices, and legacies.
1. Reinforcements

The Wheel of Time and all its characters is owned and trademarked by Robert Jordan and Tor. This story was written for entertainment purposes only and not intended for monetary gain.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Prologue**

_1032 years After the Breaking, waves of Shadospawns stormed out from the Blasted Land, lead by vengeful Myyrdraal and Dreadlords to raze the Land. The nations of the Covenant stood against this inundation: Coremanda, Aelgar, Almoren, Aramaelle, Aridhol, Eharon, Essenia, Jaramide, Safer, and Manetheren. Heroes of tragedy and destiny collided with the Dark One's forces. One of the most notable group of those heroes was the Band of the Red Hand, the Sword that could not be Broken. Memories still linger of those men of courage and vigor, chronicled in the Ballad of the Band..._

_"The Old Blood sings of a mighty Band,  
The infamous guardians of the Land.  
The Dark One 'self felt the bite of the Thorn,  
The bravest souls whom ever born.  
Forever live those bold Red Hand!"_

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter One: Reinforcements**

Sergeant Stef Reimos tugged at his red cloak, pulling it closer. He shivered, and wrapped it tightly around his body in an effort to cut out the wind. He was always cold nowadays. The air froze his lungs when he inhaled and came out in a thick steam. He plunged through the high but mostly trampled snow along with the rest of Eldrene's Company.

His exposed face felt scarred from the harsh dry winds, and wished for a thicker cloak and better boots. He walked mechanically; the long monotonous snowdrifts remained the same for miles, as the snake of soldiers marched through. He watched the back of the soldier walking before him, the blood red hand stitched to that faded cloak claiming his vision.

The only sound was the cracking of snow being trampled beneath and the howling winds. Like most, he had long stopped talking, with each voice drawing more cold air into his already frozen lungs.

Stef Reimos wished for the warm hearth of the Mafel Dadaranell Keep where the company had stayed a few days ago... was it days? Weeks? How long has it been? How much time has passed since the company had left Manetheren? The snow swallowed time as much as heat. All he could remember were long days of cold march, sometimes a warm fire in a town or city, more often sleeping covered in cloak and the issued blanket.

Eldrene's Company had been sent north to reinforce the main Band, especially with much of the latter's numbers chiseled down by sword and cold. Like many companies, it was named after a guardian of Manetheren: Queen Eldrene, the beautiful Rose of the Sun. Since the Trolloc Wars had begun, the main body of the Band of Red Hand had taken up residence in northern Aramaelle, where it could do the most damage and the most good, and occasionally revitalized by new bodies like Eldrene's from the Mountain Home when their numbers begin to dwindle dangerously.

Reimos took an appraisal of the land, and saw the black Mountains of Dhorom etching the sky around of the company. The company had just entered the vast mountain range named after the famed Sentinel Dhorom, stretching from the Aryth coast of Saldaea east to the Spine of the World.

A faint but clear note from a horn far ahead shattered the silence, its blast drawing Reimos immediately to attention. A second note followed quickly.

"Trouble?" A foot soldier asked. Reimos placed the voice to a young recruit, Cordin Brogan, part of his squad, who had recently joined before the Company had left for the North.

"Something like that. The pickets ran into spawns." Reimos said.

"If it's a full host, we'll going to be boiling in a pot tonight." A soldier beside him muttered.

"Than we'd better kill them first, eh, Tayren?" Stef drew his sword out from his red-stained leather scabbard and hefted its weight in his arm.

Orders rippled through the line of men, and the soldiers began to split into defensive formation, infantry forming up at the perimeter with archers jostling for position.

"My squad with me!" Reimos shouted over the voices of others and plunged through the snow towards the edge. As he reached the perimeter, he could see the rapidly approaching shapes of the scouts racing towards the safety of the main body. Behind them appeared the hulking and unmistakable figures of Trollocs. Thumping drums of war hammered through the air. And they came.

The squad formed besides Reimos, a small segment of the perimeter lines. The entire infantry line shifted in anticipation.

"Let's make this a good one! Stay together!" He shouted, adding to the roar of hundreds of voices.

"Stay together!" Tayren echoed, "if you get separated...I'll kill you after the spawns are done with you!"

Those dark hulking shapes came on, faster than humanly appeared. Their enormous size dwarfed an average human, and their strides carried them ever closer. Reimos grabbed the ring that hung on a thong around his neck, kissed it for luck, and slipped it protectively inside his jerkin. A flight of arrows flew over Reimos' head, to feather the oncoming shadowspawns. Many fell, but more howled and worked themselves into a bloodlust. Another flight of arrows took off. A third.

And then the spawns arrived, smashing into the infantry lines. The sword in Reimos' hands flashed and parried desperately. The Trollocs bore long wicked swords of massive weight and enormous spiked mattocks. Sharp pain streaked up Reimos' arm as his sword barely deflected a massive blow, nearly sending his weapon flying.

The beast that delivered it, bore on, but gave a pained howl when Tayren rushed under his defense and sliced through the flesh of the beast's leg. Reimos took that opportunity to lunge in and bury his sword through its massive chest. Reimos barely had time to pull the bloodied sword out before the creature collapsed to the ground.

The sergeant gave a quick nod to Tayren and leaped into the carnage again. The heat of battle boiled over, cold steel and burning blood intermingled. Then, there were no more to kill.

Reimos exhaled and took a reading. The Trollocs had numbered only a fist or two, a rare gem these days, with most Shadowspawn hosts totaling in the thousands. While the main Band could hold its own against many a shadow host, a company at two hundred some men was barely a nuisance. However this time, the readiness of the Band had made short work of the attacking foes, with minimal lost.

"Victory!" The cry roared. Reimos licked his cracked lips, and kept a wary gaze towards the dense clusters of pines scattered around that could hide many lurking spawns. He stooped and wiped his blade on the snow, the dark blood staining the white crimson. Satisfied that it was mostly clean, he sheathed the sword.

"A taste of battle." Reimos gave a measuring look at the soldiers in the squad. All of them had survived, more or less. Cordin was wide-eyed, but his sword was stained and spawn blood smeared his face. He was the only raw tyro in Reimos' squad, the rest having seen at least some battle.

"Savor it while you can." Tayren Suturb grunted in agreement, "it's going to get a lot harder." Tayren had already served in some northern patrols, and knew the reality. His tall lanky frame knew battle, and a grim scar stretching his face attested to it. He had a good head on his shoulder, and Reimos knew he could trust him with the squad if he died, though he was not yet looking forward to that.

The groans of the wounded punctuated the air, and Reimos moved forward to help. Grimacing, he kneeled beside a fallen infantry, a pus-filled stump where his arm should have belonged. Its owner groaned softly but the blood loss was beginning to take its toll. Stef tore off strips of the soldier's red cloak and began to hastily bandage the wound. Dark red blotches immediately blossomed onto the already red fabric. Cordin came beside him, licking his lips nervously, his eyes trying to avoid looking at the wound.

"Help me with this, will ya?" Reimos grunted. Cordin glanced down, looked decidedly uneasy, but grabbed the moaning soldier by his good arm. With Cordin's help, Reimos carried the soldier onto an awaiting stretcher. Two red-armed medics carried him off, towards the temporary hospital tent.

"Not too bad for your first time, kid." Reimos glanced at Cordin. He looked barely over 'scripting age, but from what he remembered from the battle, was not a coward and could fight decently. Not a grizzled veteran by any measure--neither was Reimos--but the recruit was getting there

"Thank you sir," Cordin answered hesitantly.

"The sooner we get moving, the sooner we can meet up with Cathon's army. Wherever they are." Reimos remarked and rubbed his stained hands on the snow. The cleansing white soaked up most of the blood, but Reimos could still feel the blood staining his hands dark red like his cloak. Seeing that the wounded were removed, he gave a wave, and he and the squad trudged back. The perimeter of the defense began to collapse into itself and formed back into the long line of cold marching soldiers.

Looking back, Reimos saw the hospital tent going down as well.

"Patched up as fast they could be," Tayren said, almost reading Reimos' mind, "Right back into the march if they could walk. And for those who meet the bone-saw, they get transported around like barley."

Reimos nodded grimly. The Trolloc Wars had taught many lessons. If you were in hostile territory, mobility equals survival. If they stayed in one spot too long, they're going to be swarmed by ten times the number minutes later.

"Don't know whether to feel sorry for them or jealous." He grunted, "A free ride sounds nice around now. Even if I do have to lose an arm."

Once more, scouts moved out, disappearing over the snowy mounds.

Reimos grunted, feeling the cold seeping into his bones again, and tramped on.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	2. The Storm Lord

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Two: The Storm Lord**

The Storm Lord stood upon the rise, his gaze sweeping far across the snow-covered plains. The black vermin of spawns dotted the far distance like cancerous growth. He regarded a particularly large cluster of the foul beasts and raised his hand in a fist.

The heavens wept fire and rain of unyielding stone upon them. That cluster was shattered, dying and dead spawns littering the pure whiteness.

"YES!" Lieutenant General Diest Arcanum bellowed, his voice a deep thunderous boom, one reason for his nickname. He was a large man, muscled and cloaked in Band red. He glanced with pride at his assembly of catapults perched on the crest of the hill, spewing burning naphtha and bone-crushing boulders upon the distant spawns. The main body of the Band of Red Hand, nearly two hundred thousand strong, was arrayed around the massive hill. His fascination with siege weapons was attested to by the fact that Thunder Legion was almost entirely composed of Ballistic Banners.

The fleet of ballistic machines at his disposal was the very best. Arcanum had seen to _that_. Those light-weight tension catapults were, as some would call it, his obsession. Scaled down from the heavier siege catapults, they could keep up with the ever-moving Band, even through snow or sleet. Each crafted by master engineers from the finest sungwood imported from the Ogier Groves by Manetheren city. They were the _best_.

The Storm Lord pulled his lips back in a sneer, and made his way through the battery. A team of loaders had just finished cutting out a massive block of ice from the side of the hill. With the convenient amount of ice always present in the north, who needed to carry boulders?

Arcanum gazed at the man-sized mounds behind the catapults. Even covered with leather canvas and buried in snow, it worried him greatly. Each one of those buried clay barrels contained either naphtha or witch's brew. Any stray spark, however rare they are and...

Arcanum shuddered. He had already lost one catapult to one careless mistake dealing with those volatile liquids. He glanced at his hands; both were scarred by fire on the back.

Arcanum shook his head and watched his men again. The ice block was already loaded, and the Observer gave a shout. The boulder of ice arched through the air, diminishing rapidly. Arcanum followed the frozen missile with a practiced eye, and grunted with satisfaction as it slammed into an enemy siege weapon.

"Good eye, soldier." Arcanum pulled out his watch-glass and set it to his eye. Watch-glasses were indeed rare these days; Arcanum had to pull all his strings as a Lieutenant-General to obtain one. He saw the crushed figure of the spawn rock-thrower and gave a snort of derision. Crude was the kindest word he could say about it. Onagers of bad design always irritated him, no matter which army they were deployed for. The Hordes rarely used any ranged weapons, lacking even basic archers. Onagers were their preferred siege weapon, but most of the times didn't even work or killed their own crews.

"Thank you, sir." The observer answered, his eyes still casting the distance for viable targets while the loaders heaved on another ice boulder, "I tuned the hoist personally. Cold weather's distorting the wood. But the accuracy should be correct now."

Arcanum recognized the wind-scarred observer as a Captain Cydin Blake, a proud young man, somewhat naïve, but good at his craft. Arcanum considered his words, and nodded.

"You have something there." Arcanum stroked his chin thoughtfully, "the accuracy of the catapults have degraded lately; I will speak to the other cat crews about correcting the windlass."

"If they had any skill, they should've recognized it already," Blake replied disdainfully, "Five slack...half-range...FIRE!"

The whistle announced another projectile leaping toward the enemy lines. Arcanum watched as it slammed into a thick formation of spawns. Captain Blake will go quite far, Arcanum noted to himself.

Finishing with the inspection, he strode through the snow, past those ominous mounds of barrels, and came to his latest machine ordered from HQ. The Ballista was pulled by three large workhorses up towards the edge of the bluff towards the rest of the cats. The giant wheeled crossbow rolled across the snow, its sinuous bolt gleaming.

"About time." Arcanum licked his chapped lips.

"Freshly built as ordered. We got stuck in a snowdrift." The Ballista's observer replied, "Major Drov Borsy."

"Diest Arcanum." The two shook with gloved hands.

"The Storm Lord?" Borsy smirked, "should've guessed you would be the one to have it dubbed the _Aclare_."

"The Thunderbolt." Arcanum said, and watched as it reached its destination and was unhitched.

"You have the honor for its maiden shot." Borsy bowed and grinned.

"Don't mind if I do." The two men strolled over to the machine. Some nearby batteries gave it a curious look, but returned to their own cats.

Arcanum studied the long bolt perched in the carriage. A large sturdy oak javelin with a steel-tipped head, it could completely punch through an armored soldier's plate and body. There were some stories that boasted of ballista bolts slamming through as much as ten bodies, though Arcanum gave those little credit. But looking at that wicked missile, Arcanum pondered if it truly might be possible.

Arcanum scanned the enemy lines with his glass and saw that the spawn assaults were deteriorating and most of their forces had retreated. But his gaze came upon one last wave, this time lead by a black-cloaked Myrddraal riding in the midst. The Myrddraal stopped his horse barely out of archer range and raised its black sword in the air. The hulking trollocs streamed around it, attempting to slam through the Band's infantry lines.

"Perfect. Three...four slack...full range...third arc..." The creaking of wood behind Arcanum told him that its crew was moving into action. The Myrddraal still stayed in one place, but suddenly its face turned upwards. If the Halfman had possessed eyes, Arcanum would have sworn they were focused on him.

"FIRE!" Arcanum boomed. With a roar of tension being unleashed, the huge bolt flashed across the battlefield. His gaze continued to be fixed upon the shadowy rider, who was still motionless-- not even his black cloak stirred.

The bolt flashed through the view circle of the watch-glass, and punched a hole through a Trolloc beside the Myrddraal. The Myrddraal's black stallion reared and he rode out of view.

Arcanum cursed vehemently, "The Dark One's own luck."

"Not terribly accurate." Borsy noted, "But it'll do. It seems better for larger targets, such as ships. We have some designs for water-born ballistas, and they'll sure to come in handy when Trollocs learn to _swim_."

A cry came rushing through the ranks interrupted Arcanum's response.

"Victory!"

"_Nui Vonn Ganei_!"

"For the Band!"

"The Band of Red Hand!"

Arcanum took a viewing through his glass and saw that the last wave of spawns had been crushed.

"Alright, men! Get some canvas on those engines. Looks like we'll be camping here." Arcanum roared, "If they try again, we'll lick'em again!"

As his men scrambled to cast covers on their cats to protect them from the cold and damp, the sun began to sink. Arcanum eagerly anticipated a warm fire...far away from the naphtha of course.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	3. The Beginning of an End

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Three: The Beginning of an End**

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon flexed his fingers, stiffened by cold and age, and gazed at the aftermath of the battle. He felt old, as if a heavy weight had been placed upon his shoulder. Which was technically true. He had been in command of this Grand-Legion of the Band of Red Hand for...15 years (_has it been that long?_), moving up through the ranks, through a combination of skill and harsh fatalities of previous commanders.

He tugged at the beard at his chin, almost as if he just discovered it existed. He remembered when he used to shave everyday. But, it kept his face warm, and shaving supplies were non-existent, considering that the grand-legion now camped thousands of leagues from civilization in the midst of a hostile territory. A half world away from his home. He had not seen his family in twenty years or the silent woods where he had explored during his youth...the Sandbars and the giant buried bones inside that were made of rock...the great Halls of the Citadel and the voices that echo forever in their vaulted arches...the most beautiful woman he had known dancing with flowers in her hair…

"Sir?" A voice broke through the faint echoes of home. Cathon shook his head sadly. _All the things that we fight for. If only I could believe we are winning..._

"Yes?" He replied.

"The Butcher's Bill is in." Nathen Austern, Lawe's Adjutant, stood patiently by  
Cathon's horse.

Cathon sighed, "What did we pay?"

"A hundred and ten infantry casualties. Most of them concentrated in Zephyr Legion, which took the brunt of the spawn assault. Thirty-two cavalry. Ten percent casualty in Noter Raisse's 133rd."

Cathon gazed at the battlefield, and mentally replayed the battle in his head, "Less than I had expected. Some would call it extraordinary small, considering what we faced. But we cannot continue to lose this much in every engagement. We cannot _afford_ to."

"It is only the first time we tried the Bashere Gambit. I am sure that next time, we can be more efficient with it." Austern noted.

"Yes, and we can be even more efficient the third. And than the Spawns learn. They counter it. By the fifth engagement it becomes useless. The longer they drag on the war, the more they win. Even if every one of the Band licks ten spawns, twenty more come to replace them. Call a staff meeting, Nathen."

Austern nodded and walked off, his faded cloak trailing behind him.

Cathon sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair. His once raven hair was streaked with gray now. It is a rare occasion, almost non-existent, for an officer stay alive more than ten years in the Trolloc Wars. The only thing keeping him alive was his luck. Luck was all he had.

Cathon nudged his horse with his knee and began to move towards HQ. His thirtieth horse. The wars in the north had been the harshest against horses, with hidden trip-holes hidden by snow, and their bulk making for prominent targets. He had stopped bothering to name them.

He nodded to the soldiers that he passed, huddled around campfires in tattered red cloaks. Sometimes he stopped to speak a few words or offer a word of encouragement.

"Sir, when will the next supply convoy arrive?" A soldier asked. He looked to be no older than twenty, but his eyes had the grim set of a veteran who had seen battles.

"Soon." Cathon promised. Both the soldier and Cathon knew it was a lie. But, the soldier simply nodded and returned to his fire.

Cathon tried to remember when the last supplies came in. A month ago at the most recent. Supply lines were suffering appallingly. With meager amount of armed escort, they were easy prey to the spawns that ranged throughout Aramaelle. And because the Band kept moving, any supply trains that survived spawn raids had to scour the land before finding them. And _then_ they had to make the journey back. The bravest of men were not those who carried a banner into battle, but those who rode the caravans through dangerous land, so that others may live to fight, and rode those caravans back into the shadows of obscurity, while generals claim the victory.

Cathon came towards the main tent in HQ and dismounted. A stable boy took the reigns from his hands.

Lights emanated through the canvas walls, evidence that the generals had already gathered. Cathon adjusted his frayed cloak and ducked in.

He blinked and felt the tendrils of heat warming his body. The fire in the middle of the tent crackled and popped, its smoke streaming through the break in the tent ceiling.

Cathon noted the familiar faces circled around the fire, many of whom have been with him through much of his command. Cathon sat down at the space left for him, and lifted his hands towards the fire, the warmth seeping in.

"_Bandor Lu'tra e Shen an Calhar._" Lieutenant General Stren Vader greeted him.

"_Tai'shar Manetheren._" Cathon replied. He met the eyes of every one of the waiting generals. Then his eyes came upon a particular ageless face. Two green eyes met his, a cool and calculating look. She was knitting, but set down her needles.

"A victory today!" Lieutenant General Deist Arcanum proclaimed.

"More _victories_ like this, and it won't be long before we lose the war." Major-General Glene Hill replied. His Zephyr Legion had suffered the worst fatalities.

"Better than a defeat." Arcanum retorted.

"I agree with Glene." Cathon cut in, "we _are_ losing. Sure, we're winning battles. Undefeated so far. But, we're still losing.

"We lost close to a company today, and we'll keep losing them. This...war has gone on for two hundred some years. All we have known in life is war. Eldrene's Company will arrive soon, and will cover the losses _this_ time. But there will be no more reinforcements after Eldrene's for a very long time. The last able men in the Mountain Home are in that company, and the rest here. Manetheren is bled dry of men. Anyone who is able to carry a blade or staff is fighting. And dying. Our crops have long wilted and our homes lie entombed in dust and cobwebs. The Band of Red Hand will lose. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But the hardest rock will not withstand two hundred years of storm and flood."

Grim eyes that met his were without emotion.

Major General Jot Diadrem steepled his fingers, and leaned forward, "Then what are we to do."

"We end it." Cathon spoke softly, "Gentlemen, we have long seen that tall black visage like a dagger in the sky, in the long years we have been entrenched in Northern Aramaelle. In a long war, we will lose, and this war has gone long enough, as it is. We must strike the heart of the Darkness."

"Shayol Ghul." A soft melodic voice said.

"Shayol Ghul." Cathon repeated, and met those liquid green eyes.

"You truly believe you can take it?" She coolly remarked and picked up her needles again, resuming her work.

"That's what I'm going to find out, Airene Sedai."

Some of the commanders were visibly uneased. Cathon saw Arcanum struggling to think of something to say, something that would not out right affront Cathon.

"When you are outnumbered, and surrounded," Vader stirred the fire, causing it to flicker and dance, "the only option is to attack."

"I have faith in the Band. I have faith in the commanders. I have faith in the men. And frankly, we don't have much choice."

There was a silence, filled with only the crackle of the fire, as the generals silently contemplated it.

"We'll need supplies." Seth Notar broke the silence. Cathon gave a nod. The generals had agreed. Deep down inside, Cathon had wished some would disagree. As a sane man, he didn't want to die, which the assault on Shayol Ghul would most likely render. But, like him, the commanders all knew the truth and what must be done.

"Eldrene's Company will be bringing in the sufficient supplies. Anything else?" Cathon glanced at Airene Andalusa. The advisor from Tar Valon met his glance, and remained silent and her emotions unreadable.

"To Shayol Ghul we go." General Hill placed a hand over the dying fire. The hand seemed to glow red with the radiance of the fire.

Cathon reached out, and placed his right hand upon Hill's hand. Four more hands joined, glowing red in the fire's range.

"For the Band."

"The Band of Red Hand."

The fire flickered and died, its embers glowing for a second before fading into blackness.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	4. Last Sons of Manetheren

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Four: Last Sons of Manetheren**

A blood red sun rose over the mountains of Dhorom, its light casting black shadows into its many jagged crevasses.

Reimos shielded his eyes as he gazed up at the sun and wished that it was closer. He put all his bitter cold soul and body and heart into that wish. But alas, the Creator did not listen, and it looked to Reimos' wind-reddened eyes that the sun was even more distant. Reimos glanced back down to see the last foothills of the Dhorom within sight.

Eldrene's Company had traveled all night through the dangerous passes. One soldier, who had made a fatal misstep, had fallen into the darkness, never to be seen again. Thankfully, most took heed at this and found caution. Some had even taken to calling it the Mountains of Dhoom. The trek was slow and laborious, but they had lost no one else. At dawn, they had finally passed the mountains into Northern Aramaelle. Reimos was tired and cold and extremely irritable, and was showing it.

"Hurry up, you worthless trash. And what the bloody ashes are YOU doing?" Reimos growled at two of his men who seemed to be throwing balls of snow at each other, "One'd think you never saw snow before. The Creator damn me if I never saw this white mush again. Now, shut up and move."

"Well, Reimos, you're cheerful today."

Tayren grinned. He looked so cheery that Reimos felt like punching him in his face. Or at least tapping him on the head with a morning star.

Reimos grunted, "We'd better link up to the Band soon. My bloody foot's frozen, my bloody face is frozen, and I haven't felt my bloody toes in days. I _think_ I am still alive; but the only proof I have is this bloody, forsaken headache. And that could very well be the death spasm. For all I care, the spawns can keep Aramaelle."

Tayren nodded his head towards the front of the company, "Well, looks like your wish has come true, Stef."

Reimos followed Tayren's gaze, and saw, as the Company came over the last snow-covered hill, a multitude of tents. In the middle were the Caldazar and Red Hand, flying proudly.

"Well...look at that." Reimos grunted, his eyes capturing all the details of the camp. The sprawling encampment seemed to be concentrated around a rising, with tents in ring, enough for thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Squinting, Reimos could make out tarp-covered mounds on the top of the hill, which could only be siege engines.

The front of the company entered the camp and it appeared the line was meandering towards the top of the hill. As Reimos passed the perimeter, he inclined his head at the pickets who were gnawing on rations. Their cloaks were just as frayed as Reimos, but their spears were well kept and their eyes were alert as they attempted to break their fast, and apparently their teeth in the process. At that sight, Reimos' stomach gurgled, and he looked forward to breakfast, even if it was thin barley soup or frozen heels.

As Eldrene's company passed through the rings of tents, red-clad soldiers exited their tents to see the newcomers. Reimos saw two long separated brothers embrace, and he glanced around to see if he could find someone he knew. But though some looked vaguely familiar, the majority of these soldiers had left Manetheren five, ten years ago. Everywhere, soldiers began to call out questions.

"How is Manetheren?"

"Does anyone know..."

"...Twelfth Acre..."

"How are the people at..."

"My family, the Condas?"

"...please!"

Reimos' searching eyes finally found what it seeked.

"Da!" Reimos called. He broke out of line and clasped the older man. His father had changed so much. His hair had turned completely white, intense lines creased his face, and his eyes seemed to be paler and older.

"Stef," Jorj Reimos said as he stepped back, "So, you signed up. I can't say I approve."

"I can make my own decisions. I've fought before." Then Stef Reimos hesitated, "Da, about mom. I don't know if you heard. She's...she's... The years have been hard on her since you left. She became so weak, and I couldn't contact you...She passed away two winters ago. Before she passed away, she wanted me to give you this."

Reimos pulled the thong-and-ring from his neck and placed it in Jorj's hands. Jorj's face had always seemed as if it was chiseled from stone, but when the ring found his hands, it seemed the stony exterior cracked just a bit. His fingers closed around the ring, and his eyes seemed to fade. To his son, Jorj has always been a hard man, but for a brief moment, he seemed vulnerable. He whispered to himself, "Oh Eve. Eve. For love of Manetheren."

Jorj sighed, and looked back at Reimos. He seemed harder then he was before, if that was possible. A statue which had once been a man. "Thank you, Stef. Your company's moving on."

Stef Reimos clasped hands with his father. Jorj's hands were cold and hard, almost all tendon and bone, its warmth long leeched away. Stef nodded soberly to his father, and moved back into the line. Stef felt a tiny ache of pain inside, like an old battle wound, but crushed it underneath a wall not unlike his father's.

The wearied sergeant and Eldrene's Company continued up the hill and pooled around the large tents of the HQ. The majestic Red Eagle danced in the wind alongside the Red Hand. Below them flew the Wolfhead of Aemon, the Boarhound of Cathon, and the Shield of the Covenant.

An assembly of men stood below the banners and waited patiently as the entire company had arrived. A tall man with gray-streaked hair watched the gathering company. His cloak was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly.

When all had arrived, he began to speak, "Welcome, Eldrene's Company. I am the commander of the Band of the Red Hand, Marshall-General Lawe Cathon.

"I do not know many of you for I have left home over thirty years ago. But I do know that everyone one of you is a true son of Manetheren. You will hold back the black flood so that the Mountain Home will not drown, and you have made the terrible sacrifices. I thank you.

"Since Aemon has pledged the Band...scores of years ago, we have held back the flood here, but as most know, we cannot hold them much longer. Many of you will sacrifice your lives, your dreams, your hopes, for nothing more than the love for your country. For _humanity_. Our greatest endeavor is nigh, an assault on the Bastion of Shadows itself. If we fail or we succeed, I do not know, and I cannot know. For I will not lie to you. You have pledged your lives and aspirations to this superhuman task, and that is all I will ask from you. All that I _need_.

"For those who have recently joined, the Band of the Red Hand is the Grand-Legion of Manetheren, consisting of five Legions, and subsequently, Banners, companies, platoons, and squads. Eldrene's Company will be moving in under the command of the 50th Light Infantry Banner under Major General Drogan Tryth within Glene Hill's Zephyr Hawk Legion. You will bivouac in the Third Encampment. General Tryth will provide you with additional information.

"May the Light shelter us in the Darkness to come. Only with the love of Manetheren will we survive. For Manetheren!" Cathon saluted.

"For Manetheren!" Eldrene's Company shouted. The Caldazar and the Red Hand flew above the True and Last Sons of Manetheren.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	5. The Blasted Lands

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Five: The Blasted Lands**

Diest Arcanum studied the papers in his hands from atop his gelding. After scrutinizing a design for a trebuchet, he absent-mindedly reached up to his ear for a quill, but his hand bounced off his helmet. He glanced at his empty hand for a second and looked up from his study. The Band was on the move again, the line of soldiers stretching far ahead and back.

Arcanum's nose curled at a stench he had just noticed and glanced down at the ground. The snow was melting into a brownish-yellow mush that sickened the stomach. Dry hot breezes assaulted the army from the north, bringing smells of decay and rot. While Arcanum did not miss the snow at all, he wasn't looking forward to this new climate as they approached the Blasted Lands.

Arcanum shrugged and glanced back at his designs. He made a mental note for the trebuchet to be used for the assault on Shayol Ghul, and rifled through the papers until he found the sketch for the _Aclare_. The assault on the Black Bastion didn't seem so insane when reduced to numbers and logistics. Actually, it was still insane, but not _as_ so. He rubbed his chin and adjusted his helmet. It was becoming increasingly hot and stifling, and sweat was already starting to form on his forehead.

"Drov, look at this for a moment." Arcanum called to the engineer riding by his side. Arcanum had taken a liking to the Major, especially to his adroitness at siege engines. Borsy rode his gelding closer and Arcanum showed him the designs. Arcanum pointed at a few points, "If we make a few changes here. And here. And scale this all down..."

Borsy pulled off his helm, wiped his face of sweat, and peered at the papers, "I believe that would work. On paper at least. And it certainly looks like an interesting machine. I'll get the boys working on these. Light, it's hot."

Arcanum handed the papers to Borsy, who went on to study the Storm Lord's new toy. Arcanum glanced at the surrounding and made a grimace. Trees and foliage had begun to appear. But he'd rather they hadn't. The trees seemed to be rotting while they grew, bloated and bleeding black liquids. Cancerous red and green growth splattered the leaves, and the fruits looked as if they were going to explode at any moment.

"You know the latest on the war situation?" Arcanum asked.

"Yeah, the Corp handles most of the pigeons, so we're generally updated, though the last one we received was about two weeks ago. Jaramide partisans running their hit-strikes. They're reporting heavy spawn activities there, but the Safari Phalanxes should handle any move southwards. Noncom Bashere is trying to rebuild the Immortals. And Aridhol, well, you know Aridhol," Borsy ticked off his fingers, "We aren't exactly winning, but we aren't exactly losing either."

"Well, at least I'm reassured that we're not alone." Arcanum glanced at a bloated bush at the side of the room, and felt a morbid fascination to actually touch one. Smartly, Arcanum restrained that urge for the grotesque. But, a soldier a few paces in front of the general didn't seem to have as much sense, and actually reached out towards a red-splotched shrub.

With a shriek he leaped back, thrashing his arm.

"Get it off! Get IT OFF!" He slammed into another soldier and fell to the ground, still shrieking. Arcanum watched in growing horror as the soldier's hands began to blacken and dissolve before his eyes, slowly inching up his arms. The Band came to a grinding halt.

Arcanum leaped off his horse and sprinted towards the soldier, but a ring of men was forming around the thrashing soldier. Everyone watched in stunned shock, but none knew what to do. Arcanum pushed his way through, grabbing a battleaxe from a soldier. He slammed past, raised the axe, and slammed it down upon the shrieking soldier's upper arm with a sickening noise.

The decapitated limb twitched and spasmed and continued to dissolve. Arcanum could now catch the sight of a tiny bloated insect attached to a blackened finger. A flash of fire hit the arm, as Arcanum shied away from the flaring heat and light. A dark-haired woman rushed to the downed man's side, and placed her hands upon his shuddering chest. As Arcanum watched on, the man's stump closed to smooth skin and his trembling slowly subsided.

She slowly stood up, her emerald eyes glancing down at the ashes by her feet. She straightened her yellow shawl, and coolly said, "A Stick. This man is lucky to be alive. Their bite digests its prey while they still live. He will be fine for now. Perhaps you all should take a lesson. Touch nothing. No trees. No leaves. Nothing. In fact, just stay away from any of the foliage, as if it was not _common_ sense. There are worse things than the stick. A butcher bug spins a thread between trees so thin that the naked eye cannot detect it, and sharper than a steel blade. When a creature such as a _foolish _ man walks into it, they decapitate themselves. That is, if the tree itself doesn't kill him first."

Airene Andalusa gave another look to the soldiers once more and glided away. A shadow detached from the crowd, trailing after her, his shimmering cloak floating behind.

Two soldiers kneeled besides their fallen comrade and helped pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and shook his head. He glanced at the stump of his right arm and shuddered, but shakily got back to his feet.

Arcanum glanced at the bloodied axe in his hand and tossed it to the ground. He gave a distasteful grimace, and rubbed at the blood stains on his shirt cuffs. The soldiers gave a wary look at the tree that the unfortunate man had touched, and returned to their formations.

As Arcanum remounted, the Band began to creep forth again, giving a wide birth to any flora. When his horse passed the remains of the arm, Arcanum glanced down at the black ashes and looked up at the looming black mountain in the distant.

"What are we getting into?" He muttered. Despite the dank heat, he shivered. The wind kicked up the ashes, scattering them.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	6. Getty's Canyon

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Six: Getty's Canyon**

Lawe Cathon rubbed the tarnished watchglass on his cloak and fitted it to his eye. He studied the land before him and grimaced. Even with the watchglass, all he could see was fractured ground, spiderwebbed with league-wide crevasses and irregular crags. He removed the watchglass and unrolled a yellow-edged map from his saddlebag.

"Is there a way across?" His assistant asked. The Band of Red Hand had stopped at the lip of the lip of the giant mess of fissures, patiently waiting for a decision.

Lawe Cathon tugged at his beard thoughtfully, his fingers gliding across the rough paper, "These fissures go for leagues across. I wonder what had happened here. It is as if a giant fist pounded the land into submission. That canyon in front of us appears to be the only feasible way across."

"Getty's Canyon."

Cathon glanced around to see Airene glancing over his shoulder. Her black-armored warder rode silently behind her. Since the pair had joined them when the Band had past through Mafal Dadaranell a year past, Cathon had never known seen the face of the gaidin, who kept his visage always shielded by his visor. Cathon had never caught his name, and the warder had never offered it, and so Cathon just referred to him as The Warder. Warder apparently accepted that and would respond to it, with his echoing metallic voice.

"Yes, Getty's Canyon. You know it?" Cathon arched his eyebrow.

"The explorer Dravo Getty. Like all men, cocky and rash. Being such, decided to map the Blasted Lands one day. Not unexpectedly, he did not return. A van of Aramaellean scouts on patrol found a half-buried map accredited to Getty. This canyon was the last thing drawn, and well, the Aramaelleans named the canyon after him. His tomb if you will."

"One immense tomb." Austern noted.

Cathon looked down at the map again, deep in thought. A large sinister spire of Shayol Ghul was inked on the map, a whim of the mapper most likely, as Cathon doubted anyone had ever been foolish enough to map it.

"General!" A soldier rode up at a trot, his hand holding a small square of paper.

"A pigeon?" Cathon wheeled his gelding around.

"Just flew in, sir." The soldier gave the sheet to the Marshall-General, and saluted. He nudged his horse and returned to his banner.

Cathon glanced down at the paper for a second and shivers ran up his spine.

"Light!" Cathon grimaced, "it's from Mafal Dadaranell. They're under attack. Some treachery. Spawns broken through both walls. Assistance required."

Airene snatched the message from Cathon, "But it would take a massive host to take down that city. I doubt if even the Band could besiege Mafal Keep. It's dated two weeks ago."

"They must have let loose all their pigeons with this message," Austern said, "By your orders, general, we have not been sending them our positions anymore. This is a desperate act. Only sheer luck let the pigeon find us."

"How far are we from Mafal Dadaranell?" Cathon asked.

"It would take us a month at the least." The adjutant replied truthfully.

"Than whatever has happened there has already happened. Let us hope they have found reinforcements in time." Cathon said grimly. He did not like it, but he was going to have to accept it. "We must go on."

Cathon glanced at Airene, who was still staring at the message. Cathon knew that there were Aes Sedai in Mafal Dadarenell. But the Tower was no man's business, as Airene had instilled in Cathon often enough. So he said nothing.

"The Band marches. To be safe, separate legions in vans. Send some pickets out in front." Cathon said, nudging his horse forward. The order rippled through the ranks, and like a waking beast, the Band started to move. Every time, Cathon felt heady at having a hundred thousand men at his back and command. No one was immune to the allures of power. But still he knew that it might not be enough for their task ahead.

Cathon glanced at the ground as the Band descended down into Getty's Canyon. It was a mild incline, but could still prove to be dangerous for a horse and his rider. His brown gelding half slid and half walked down the cracked slope into the canyon.

Cathon studied the chasm named after the doomed explorer. It was perhaps a league wide and five leagues long, with tall canyon walls whose height rivaled the Dhoroms itself, the western part casting a shadow across half the valley. He felt an itch at the back of his neck, and he eyes instinctively drew down to a red-gold container hanging at the side of his gelding. But still, even that act did not reassure him, and he felt even tenser.

His horse seemed to be agitated as well, _whuffing_ and rolling his eyes. Cathon patted it reassuringly and wondered if it was too late to pick a different path. Cathon had now ridden almost to the midpoint of the Canyon, sinking into the shadows cast by the cliff walls. He glanced back and saw that the entire Band of Red Hand had entered Getty's canyon, bracketed between two un-scalable walls.

Someone inside Cathon was yelling incoherently at him, telling him something was wrong. Cathon glanced up at the colossal walls, but saw nothing except heat waves. His gelding suddenly stopped, interrupting Cathon's scrutiny. Cathon glanced down and saw the horse's front hoof centered in the depression of a giant clawed footprint.

'Perimeters, North and South! Now! Recall the scouts!" Cathon shouted, twisting his horse around.

"Shadowspawns." Airene spoke a split-second later.

The Band halted and immediately rippled outwards. A split-second later, monstrous heads appeared over the canyon walls, thousands upon thousands, looking down from all side.

The air at the far end of the canyon rippled and countless Trollocs stuffed the exit. Cathon glanced back and saw another massive host coming in to block the south entrance.

"They've got a Dreadlord. Perhaps more." Airene said, "Impossible."

"Where's our scouts?" Austern shouted.

"Most likely dead. Or wishing they were." Cathon grimaced and nudged his horses in towards the center of the perimeter, as soldiers raced past him. His eyes took in their situation and saw that it was a difficult one. No, an impossible one. They were trapped between two massive walls to the side and two hosts on either exit.  
The Band will hold them off, but not for long. _Not for long._

As Cathon shouted out his orders, his voice was silenced by the crackle of thunder. From the clear sky, lightning bolts slashed in along the ranks, and the Shadowspawns from both ends closed in upon the trapped Band.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	7. Rock and a Hard Place

**Chapter Seven: Rock and a Hard Place**

The ground shook with the powerful hammering of the Trolloc wardrums, and debris cascaded down the canyon wall in sheets, kicking up veils of dust. Reimos licked his lips, sword at ready. His squad was on the northern perimeter facing the spawns streaming into the canyon from that end. The river of shadowspawns did not seem to have an end, a black unstoppable torrent.

"It's a bloody stampede!" Tayren shouted, his sword poised beside Reimos. Reimos crouched for balance as the earth rumbled and shook. He could now make out the blood-red eyes of the first line of Trollocs. Reimos could smell sweat and heat pulsing from the spawns, and hunger...bloodlust they called it.

Reimos quashed the voice telling him to run. There was no way to run anyway. No time as well-- the Trollocs smashed into their lines, their momentum carrying many of them through. Reimos ignored them. Those were for the reserve line. His attention was focused on the five hundred Trollocs in front attempting to remove his head.

Reimos threw himself aside as a Trolloc bore down on him. The shadowspawn went past, his blade whistling over Reimos' head. Reimos rolled away, crouching up and forced his blade up the unprotected side of a different Trolloc. He immediately wrenched it out and ducked as the thrashing four-hundred pound Trolloc slammed into the earth. It was immediately trampled by the next two Trollocs leaping into the foray.

"FALL BACK!" Reimos shouted. He ducked a heavy blow from an unseen Trolloc, and forced the beast back with a wild swing. "FALL BACK!"

The soldiers near him retreated while Reimos and Tayren covered. Reimos hacked off a massive hand that had gotten careless and ducked back. Cordin and another covered his retreat, their blades warding off assaults. The squad fell back orderly, half the soldiers covering for the other.

The Trollocs became careless, blinded by bloodlust. Reimos saw this, shouting off a quick order to attack. His squad surged forward, taking out five Trollocs within seconds before they were forced back once again. Through his peripheral vision, he saw other squads doing the same. That was the only way to fight creatures larger and stronger. A rigid line will break and splinter, but a fluid line allows the smaller, more agile humans to use their speed and flexibility to their best advantage.

Flights of arrows whistled above Reimos' heads and hitting their targets by the sound of pained howls. All of them found targets in the massive sea of bodies, for it was impossible to miss, but did no visible damage. The sound of horns announced the arrival of a heavy cavalry squad. Reimos took a quick glance back and moved aside for the solidly armored horsemen to gallop past. They slammed into the Trollocs lines, forcing them back for some small seconds. Then the flood of Trollocs swarmed them. The horsemen went under, and the perimeter was on the retreat again.

Reimos glanced at the endless body of Trollocs and knew that there was no way to win. More and more Trollocs forced their way into the canyon, pushing those in front. There was no way for the spawns to retreat with thousands of their kin at their backs driving them forward with unbelievable force.

"BACK!" Reimos shouted at the top of his lungs. The perimeter started to break with the unrelenting pressure. Tiny rings of men began to appear, as Trollocs smashed through the lines, cutting up the perimeter. Reimos was in such a ring, his squad crowded around, backs to each other.

A Trolloc slammed into a soldier besides Reimos. The man brought his sword up to solidly impale the beast, but went down anyways under the weight and continued momentum of the massive corpse. Reimos swore and moved over to cover that hole. It was just a matter of time before the same happened to him.

A huge rock smashed down a meter from Reimos, causing him to glance up. The Trollocs on top of the canyon walls were now hurling rocks and debris upon the battered Band. The height made accuracy difficult, but it created one more thing to worry about.

"Fade!" A cry came up. Reimos hamstrung a Trolloc and glanced up to see the black-cloaked figure riding in the midst of the Trollocs. Its head turned toward Reimos and it came, riding the waves of Trollocs, a silent assassin among the howling masses.

"You've got to be kidding me." Reimos growled. His sword came up as the Halfman arrived. The eyeless horseman slashed out with inhuman speed and strength, sending Reimos' sword flying. Its unarmed limb slashed back, backhanding a soldier attempting to attack him from the side. The man went down. And stayed down. The Fade thrust forth once more, but Reimos was already moving away. The gleaming sword still found the edge of the jerkin, and even that glancing blow upon the chainmail sent Reimos slamming into the ground. Reimos instinctively rolled, and the sword came down only on his cloak. The red fabric caught for a second, then tore, freeing Reimos.

Reimos looked up, momentarily stunned and saw a dark shadow loom over him. The Halfman's black stallion rearing up, its hooves poised to slam down into and through Reimos.

A blur slammed into the horse's neck, and dark red blood exploded into the dazed sergeant's face, sobering him. He rolled away to a crouch, as the horse and Fade collapsed to the ground. Reimos leapt back just in time to dodge a lunge from the black sword. The Fade began to rise from the corpse of his horse when a howling, unrestrained Trolloc slammed into the Fade from behind. The Fade killed his own soldier immediately with one blow, but was crushed into the ground by the hooves of another. And another. And another. Bloodlust knew little difference between friend and foe.

Reimos was already retreating when the Trolloc attacking him howled in pain and crashed to the ground. Scores of other Trollocs collapsed as well, thrashing. Even with blood dripping into his eyes and his arms screaming in pain, Reimos could barely stifle a grin at the irony. From their special link, the Trollocs were killed by the death of the Fade they trampled.

There was a brief respite with no Trollocs near him, to which Reimos caught his breath. He could see the mangled and crushed bodies of the still-thrashing Fade and his horse alongside piles of Trollocs and occasional snatches of red cloak.

"At least the Dark One's luck doesn't apply to their bloody horses." A soldier remarked. Reimos glanced at the speaker, when a falling boulder took that soldier to the ground. The sergeant swore, and tried to pull the soldier to his feet, but gave up when he saw the broken neck. Instead, he picked up the man's sword, and brought it to position as the thousands of remaining Trollocs bridged the gap of corpses.

The company fell back in the face of sheer power. The ground filled with the bodies of the dead and wounded. The Trollocs rushed on, unrelenting. The floor of Getty's Tomb ran slick with blood.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	8. The Tightening Noose

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Eight: The Tightening Noose**

Diest Arcanum dove for the floor as forks of lightning stabbed in among the cats. Arcanum growled and pushed himself up, dusting his cloak. He surveyed the damage, counting two cats incapacitated but salvageable, and five men down and unsalvageable.

The cat crews not in the vicinity of the Dreadlord's fury continued to hammer at the Trollocs charging in from the south side. Those who had dived for safety before the lightning strikes quickly returned to their stations.

Crouching, Diest Arcanum peered through his watchglass, which now sported a crack on the viewer. He cursed the appalling position his Thunder Legion had to make do with. It was a small rising, a disgrace to the name of a hill. He cursed the rocks raining down upon him from above. And he especially cursed that _Light-forsaken_ Dreadlord.

Fuming, he finally found the Shadow General, unmistakable in some sort of silk black coat, glittering with gold and silver stitching. He was near the very back of the Trolloc horde, staying safe while his troops threw themselves at the beleaguered Band. He waved his arms in the air, and a bright flash heralded a new bolt of lightning. But before this one struck the troops, it struck an invisible shield, careening off and crackling into a side of the canyon.

"The bloody Aes Sedai's finally doing something." Arcanum muttered to himself, then quickly glanced around to make sure she was not in hearing range. He looked back at the Dreadlord, who was preparing for another strike. Personally, Arcanum thought, Dreadlords may be powerful, but for a General of a Horde, he wasn't terribly bright. If it was _him_ in the same position, he would have stationed himself on top of the canyon walls, where siege engines could not touch. Perhaps, the Dreadlord thought he was safe where he was. It was Arcanum's job to disabuse him of that notion.

"ALL CATS! ONE SLACK! FULL-RANGE! 12TH ROTATION!" Arcanum bellowed, "The first to take down that _bloody_ darkfriend gets double rations!"

The cat crews near him moved to action quickly. The boulders (helpfully supplied by the Trollocs at the crest of the canyon) were loaded, the observers made adjustments to Arcanum's approximation, and the catapults fired. Within seconds of Arcanum's command, titanic missiles were soaring through the air.

"Channel this." The Storm Lord spat on the ground. He brought his watchglass up just in time to catch the Dreadlord's expression as the boulders descended on him. Arcanum could make out a look of surprise and the Dreadlord's hand rising as if to ward off the boulders. Arcanum was caught off guard when one boulder abruptly changed direction in mid-air, slamming into a knot of Trollocs nearby, but leaving the man intact. But even that did not save the man from the five other boulders slamming down onto him in quick succession.

Arcanum's look of satisfaction began to turn grim as he took a survey of the battle. The Band's perimeter was beginning to shatter and in fast retreat, as they were forced back by greater and greater numbers. Arcanum estimated that the Band was outnumbered three-to-one, and even Cathon's legendary luck (which Arcanum scoffed at) could not save them.

Suddenly tongues of flames flayed the top of the canyons, causing burnt out corpses to tumble down the sides, and the rest of the Trollocs perched there to withdraw. Without the need to protect the Band, the Aes Sedai was apparently going on the offensive. Though Arcanum was glad the bloody nuisances on the walls of the canyon were smote, he knew they were still only nuisances, and would not affect the course of the battle.

"Lieutenant General!" Nathen Austern, Cathon's adjutant, called from horseback, "Take your Legion out to safety, in any way you can. The Band is ordered to retreat!"

"We will do NO SUCH thing!" Arcanum boomed, "The Band does _not_ back down."

But Austern had already galloped away, relaying the same order to the other commanders.

"Cathon leads us on this suicide mission, and now retreats at the first sign of trouble?" Arcanum shouted, "Men, stay at your positions! THIS IS AN ORDER. Dignity in death! FOR MANETHEREN!"

Arcanum clenched his teeth when he glanced through the watchglass. Both perimeter lines were disintegrating. To a layman, it appeared the Band was dissolving into utter chaos, but Arcanum saw with grudging pride that the red-cloaked soldiers were breaking apart into squads. A huge movement of red in his peripheral drew his attention. Entire banners of cavalry had formed up, and were now smashing their way through the Trolloc ranks. Like a giant spear, they carved their way through bodies, the infantry following in the wake.

The Band was breaking out, no matter the cost, and it looked like Arcanum's Legion will soon be the only soldiers remaining.

"Where are you going?" Arcanum growled at a soldier hitching up his catapult to its packhorses. The soldier looked up. _Blake_, Arcanum recalled.

Captain Cydin Blake stood up, "Retreating, _sir_. The Marshall-General has given us the order, _Lieutenant-General_, sir!"

"If you will not man that cat, _Captain_. I will do it. We will not take one step back." Arcanum stared down at Blake.

"Sir, we will not win this. Dying gloriously will not help Manetheren in any way." Blake returned the stare. With his side vision, Arcanum saw others beginning to hitch up their cats as well.

"THIS IS MUTINY."

"This is _common sense, sir_!" Blake shouted back, "Look for yourself. Sir! This isn't just you; it's the men who serve under you who will die. When they do not need to. Sir!"

The general locked eyes with his captain for a few long seconds. Finally, Arcanum gritted his teeth but glanced around. The defensive perimeter was almost entirely gone, as more and more red cloaks broke through the Trolloc horde. Whatever one can say about Arcanum, he may be a brave bastard, but he was not a stupid bastard.

"Hitch it up and break us a hole on the north!" Arcanum shouted and then looked back at Captain Blake, "As you were, captain. This is all on your head, soldier."

"Sir! Understood." Blake nodded and saluted, "If I may speak. The Naphtha. We won't be able to cart off all of it."

"Flesh burns." Arcanum nodded grudgingly, "Load up half, fire the others. We break through the north."

At Arcanum's orders, fire pits glowed as torches touched them, soaking up their flames. The clay barrels of Naphtha were efficiently loaded upon every catapult, and spun to face the north. The loaders smashed open the tops, and touched the torches to the frothing black liquid. The releases detached, and the cat-arms snapped forward.

A glittering sparkling rainbow seemed to arch through the red sky, as the catapults delivered their gifts.

To the north, the Band's charge seemed to have bogged down, with their foes recovering and standing their ground. The Trolloc were on the verge of pushing the red-cloaked soldiers back, when the heavens showered burning fire upon the ranks of the Horde. Whatever the Hand of the Storm Lord touched burst into unquenchable flames, spreading like a plague. The ranks of shadowspawn dissolved into utter chaos, terror completely replacing fury. Fire is one of two things known to subdue bloodlust, the second, death.

The Band's rush renewed, hacking their way towards the safety of the northern edge.

Arcanum's Thunder Legion began to move as well. Packhorses and soldiers strained and dragged the fleet of engines northward towards safety.

"Sir, we don't have enough horses." Blake called out.

"Where in bloody..." Arcanum's eyes caught the crushed bodies of the steeds buried under boulders thrown from above. Then the general glanced southward and cursed again.

"We've lost the entire south!" Arcanum swore. He could only see snatches of lone defenders as the Horde smashed over them. The Field HQ collapsed to the weight of the shadowspawns, and the banners burned and fell. This was not good news.

"We must leave these." Blake shouted.

"They're not getting my bloody cats." Arcanum glanced at the engines to which Blake was referring.

"But sir..."

Arcanum grabbed a Naphtha barrel from the last wagon, and kicked it over to the stranded catapults. He drew his blade, smashed open the barrel with the hilt, and kicked it over. The pool of black naphtha spread, spilling over all of the siege engines. Arcanum saw that one of the engines was _Aclare_. _A bloody shame._

Arcanum grabbed the last remaining torch from the nearest fire pit and tossed it into the pool of combustible. He shielded his eyes from the roaring flame, and gave the burning heap a salute. _A fitting pyre for my finest soldiers._

Arcanum and Blake left the blaze behind, helping to push the fleeing catapults along. The Trollocs who had overrun the southern perimeter approached, but was warded off by the rear guard. Many of the spawns broke away from their attack to loot the supply wagons left behind.

Ahead, the Band of Red Hand broke through, Thunder Legion trailing behind. The disordered Trollocs regrouped fast and snapped at the back of the retreating army, which at the moment unfortunately consisted of Arcanum's legion. Though the Band had suffered a heavy loss, they fought in an organized retreat away from the canyon, discouraging pursuit with a heavy hand and a heavy blade.

Arcanum sighed, walking besides his remaining fleet, his horse lying somewhere in Getty's Canyon with a broken neck. He knew what he would say to Cathon when he met him next.

A horseman came galloping back towards Arcanum, who recognized the lean bony rider as General Stren "Bastion" Vader.

"Ho, Diest, is this all?" Lieutenant Vader asked as he near.

"More or less, we had to abandon some engines. I need to speak with Cathon."

"So does everyone. But we can't. He was at Field HQ."

"HQ got overrun, Bastion. South perimeter went under." Arcanum said.

"Than, Diest, you and I. We are the only generals left. We've lost more than half the Band, and we've got no commander, and we've got nowhere to go..." Vader spoke softly. He glanced up at the peak of Shayol Ghul, and sighed, "We've got a reserve horse if you need it. We're in for a long journey."

The survivors of the Band of Red Hand headed westward, leaving the disorganized pursuit behind.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	9. Broken Legion

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Nine: Broken Legion**

Lawe Cathon winced as Airene dabbed at his chest wound with a moist cloth. He tried to push himself up, but the Aes Sedai firmly kept an iron grip on his shoulder.

Cathon gave up and lay back, as she began to dress his wounds. Airene had dark circles around her eyes, and her dark hair hung down in limp strands. The general knew she was completely exhausted if she had to rely on old-fashioned healing.

The details of the previous day swam in his mind. The call to retreat. Airene's lashes of fire beating back the shadowspawns, and his men swarming desperately through the gap. Cathon had hoped those at the northern end had made it out as well, but the last scene he saw as he broke free was the Horde swarming into the hole the Band had blasted through. A glancing blow to his chest had dropped him, but Austern had dragged him out. They had to leave anything they could not carry, the tents, the supplies, everything.

Cathon sighed, "All my fault. My entire bloody fault. I should've known it was a trap."

"I should've felt the shadowspawns." Airene noted, "If I was not preoccupied with my own problems. But that much Trollocs so near should have raised my alarm. The Dreadlord had done something. Something the Tower knows not."

"It was my decision, and now, ah." Cathon grimaced, "You should get some rest, Airene. I'll survive."

"I'm tougher than you think, _Lawe_." Airene bound his wounds and stood up, "there are more injured to see."

"I need to see my men." Cathon struggled to his feet.

"Do what you will then. It is your life." Airene walked away.

Cathon swept back the damp hair from his eyes, and gazed around the camp. With all the tents lost in the valley, the men had bivouacked on the bare ground.

Fortunately, the weather had since made tents obsolete. _One of the few and only advantages of the Blasted Lands._ The sun had set, but the earth was still searing hot. Darkness, unrelieved except for a waning moon, set over the camp, reducing soldiers and horses to black shadows.

"I'm glad to see you're up, Marshall-General." Major-General Jot Diadrem's voice drew Cathon's attention.

"Where's the others." Cathon glancing to see only General Seth Notar with Diadrem.

"Generals Vader, Hill, and Arcanum have all been missing since Getty's Canyon, sir." Nathen Austern walked up. The two remaining generals nodded grimly.

"Bloody..." Cathon massaged his temples, "What's the situation."

"We have the majority of Black Moon and True Blade. We have half of Hill's Zephyr Hawk and some of Vader's First Legion." Austern said.

"I have taken the survivors of Zephyr and First into True Blade." Diadrem added.

"At the current count, we have a little more than a hundred thousand men left. Roughly half. Two thousand injured, but thankfully, with the healers and Airene Sedai, the majority will survive. The rest, about eighty thousand men, including the three Generals, are presumed to be casualties."

"No, they survived." Cathon grabbed a rumpled white shirt from the ground and drew it over his body. He glanced up to dubious looks.

"They survived. They must have broken through the north side. They are good men, skilled in survival." Cathon picked up his battered cloak and hung it around his shoulders, "We march for Shayol Ghul again."

"Cathon, is this wise?" Notar asked doubtfully.

"We've suffered a grievous wound today, I do not deny this. But we will heal, and we will strike back. The Shadow thinks it has won. We will teach them differently. And if the other half of the Band still survives, which I believe with all my heart, they will continue the attack."

"Sir..." Diadrem began.

"It is your right to advise." Cathon cut him off, "You have advised me. But I have made my decision. We will continue our attack on the Black Bastion once more."

"I understand, general." Diadrem replied, "And the Creator willing, you are right."

"Nathen, what is it you need?" Cathon asked his adjutant.

"Scouts report a fist of Trollocs approaching from the north. Nothing serious, perhaps a hundred. A splinter group from yesterday most likely, eager for loot and blood."

"Notar, lead a banner of your best cavalry. Wipe those raiders out. _All_ of them. Bring their heads back on pikes; we need a morale boost." Cathon glanced up at the black sky and the blacker spire of Shayol Ghul, "We ride tomorrow morning. Send scouts out to find a path across this...well...this _blasted_ land."

"Sir." The two generals saluted and walked into the night.

"What is the account on supplies, Nathen?" Cathon asked, glancing up at the clouded sky.

"We managed to pull out a third of our supply wagons. The rations will be thin, and we only have enough fuel for firepits at the siege. No campfires, but in this weather, we'd only need it for perimeter lighting. We might survive with what we have. We might not. Sir, are you sure this plan of yours is still prudent?"

"We can only hope so, Nathen. We can only hope so." Cathon laughed dryly, "It will be the only way we can live with ourselves."

In the distance, Notar's cavalry galloped away, a single torch among them, from the pitch black camp into the pitch black night.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	10. Respite

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Ten: Respite**

Sergeant Stef Reimos forded through the chest-deep waters, his wet cloak dragging behind. When the Band had come upon this fast flowing river, Reimos had been stunned to see this clear, flowing tributary in the heart of the Blasted Lands. But, the Red Hands quickly accepted this at face value, as a barrier to hold off any pursuit. Whoever the hell was in charge had decided they should cross, but personally, Reimos didn't believe a couple spans of water would slow down the Horde they were fleeing. And speaking of which…

"Who the hell is in charge, Tayren?" Reimos asked.

"How the hell should I know? It's either Vader or Arcanum. Maybe one of the Luty Generals will try to take over. And they're welcome to it." Tayren grunted.

Reimos glanced down at the fast-flowing water churning around his torso. It looked cool and clear, an anomaly in the core of the Black Lands. His throat was parched from the long march, and he was tired of the flat water they've been receiving as ration, which was not a lot. He cupped some water his hands and raised them towards his face. But he immediately halted as the once clear water in his hands turned completely black. He stumbled a step, caught his balance, and shook his hands free of the inky fluid.

"It's a bloody illusion." Reimos grimaced. He felt more comforted as he finally stumbled onto dry land, out of the water-that-was-not-water. Reimos tugged his cloak off, and twisted the soaked cloak free of the water. The falling water turned black in mid-air, oozing down into the soil.

He draped his cloak over one shoulder, and glanced to find the rather soggy Zephyr Hawk Banner of his legion hanging limply over a branch of a sapling. He motioned his squad after him, and set off towards a viable camp spot. Satisfied at a dry sandy area, he grunted a command, and stripped himself of his wet clothes, unable to abide having the foul water tainting his skin.

He removed all his clothes except his trousers and laid them on the ground to dry. At least he hoped they would dry. He looked around to see most of the soldiers doing the same, with most of the veterans lying down to catch some sleep. He saw that Cordin Brogan was carefully rubbing his sword with sand, and walked over to the tyro.

"Lo, soldier."

"Sergeant." Cordin carefully laid his sword down, and stood up to attention.

"You did well back there, as well as a raw could. They train you after you joined?"

"No, sir!"

"Well, I have some time on my hand. Hell, the generals still haven't even made up their mind on who's in charge. Let me see what you can do." Reimos wielded his sword in a loose grip.

Cordin licked his lips and grabbed his blade as well. Reimos gave a couple of casual thrusts, which the tyro blocked to a sufficient extent.

"Now, soldier, not bad. But you're fighting a man, and a man is a world's difference from a spawn. I'm sure you've had experience with that already." Reimos snapped his sword forth, which was barely parried.

"Trollocs, as you've seen, are rather large, moody creatures. They're unnaturally strong, and can smash your skull open with a bare fist. They can outrun a horse, and have hides that can deflect steel. If you want to live, you stay fast and stay agile. Unless you want to be hacking away all day, target three areas. The throat's unprotected and a quick kill but the hardest to hit because of the height. The second is through the armpits. The third is their legs.

"You can attack their chest if you wish, but make sure your blade is angled between the ribs and to one side. But, I've yet found a Trolloc without a breastplate." Reimos begins to rotate his sword casually.

"Watch out for their bloody strength. You try blocking their blows the way you're doing to me? Well, comparing the muscles in your wrist to, say, the shoulders of a Trolloc. Like blocking a smith's anvil with an egg." With all his strength, Reimos spun, and slammed his sword down on Cordin's. The tyro's blade bounced off the ground and skipped through the air, digging a trench into the sand where it landed. Cordin flinched, rubbing at his wrist.

"Angle your sword enough so their blows are deflected away from you. Use their brute strength against them. Like that Order of Black Moon; those crazy empty-hand warriors in Aegar. Though, give me a sword any day." Reimos kicked up Cordin's sword and tossed it back to him, "But dodge whenever possible. Avoid it. Even a glancing blow can snap your arm."

Reimos slammed his sword down again, but Cordin parried it aside correctly. The kid seemed to have gotten over-enthusiastic, thinking he could give his tutor a move of his own, snapping forward with Reimos still overextended. Reimos twisted his body, bringing his hilt around to send Cordin's sword flying again.

"Cute…" Reimos grinned, "You might want to have a better grip on your weapon. Well, I'm going to get some shut-eye. You're showing improvement."

"Thank you, sir." Cordin retrieved his sword and started to wipe the blade with his red cloak.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Reimos exploded.

"Sir?" The young man seemed confused.

"Never use your _cloak_ to wipe your sword. Hell, tear it up to bandage someone's wounds, to save a life. But that cloak is the symbol of what you are here for. You get one bloody cloak, and you better treat it with bloody respect." Reimos slowed to catch his breath, and then spoke softly, "You want to keep your sanity, son. That's Manetheren you're carrying on your shoulder and back. That's bloody Manetheren."

Reimos turned and left without another word, his sword trailing in one hand.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	11. Final Measures

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Eleven: Final Measures**

Diest Arcanum met eyes with the generals gathered around, Tryth, Warsal, Blane Cathon, and Courwin Vanin. Less than half of the commanders that the Band had begun with. A single torch stabbed into the earth within the circle of men, casting flickers on the dour faces.

"Who is to lead now that the Marshall-General is lost?" Major General Vike Warsal asked bluntly.

"Lieutenant General Stren Vader will be taking command of the entire Band. I accede to seniority." Arcanum nodded to the older man.

"Thank you, Diest." Vader cleared his throat, "Due to the massive loss in Getty's...Drogan Tryth will be raised to Lieutenant General, taking over Zephyr Hawk Legion from Hill, presumed dead. His 50th will be joined with Warsal's 37th. Stragglers from other banners will be temporarily formed up as a company under Blane Cathon."

The late Marshall-General's cousin nodded to his new assignment, and the rest of the major generals acquiesced to the new positions. Vader continued, "The latest scout report states that the body of Shadowspawn from Getty's Canyon is some leagues away. They have organized themselves and will arrive, at best estimate, in the morning.

"That will give us somewhat of an advantage. As we all know, Trollocs will have difficulty seeing with the dawning sun in their vision. Although the sun will be in our faces more, our eyes will adapt easier. Furthermore, we have placed that...river...between us, but it seems that we are bracketed in the back by steep cliffs. And there's no Getty's Canyon this time for us to cross. The only way in-- and out-- is crossing that river. We will make our stand here. After all, we have nowhere to run. General Arcanum will provide you with the battle details."

Arcanum cleared his throat. "Zephyr Hawk Legion will form their infantry lines along the river, with First Legion in reserve. My Thunder Legion will be providing the support with our cats. We will have field works at the edge of the river, and in the river itself. We will be outnumbered; even worse than Getty's Canyon. But we will be prepared," Arcanum added grimly.

"Have your men split into shifts on construction of the fieldworks. Normal communications cipher. Dismissed for now. Return in an hour for battle orders." The new Marshall-General ended the meeting. The lower generals melted into the night, leaving Vader, Arcanum, and Tryth behind.

"Major, any suggestions?" Arcanum asked a shadow entering the sphere of light, revealing himself as Drov Borsy.

"E-Corps supplies are at an extreme low." Borsy addressed the three generals, "Our entire arsenal consists of a few wagons of caltrops. We will be able to facilitate the construction of the fieldworks, the spike wall, at least a general version. We have some naph and brew as well."

"I have some carts full left." Arcanum said, "Mostly Witch's Brew, but some Naphtha as well. Might as well use them here. They'll be no retreating this time."

"Perhaps. The Engineer Corps still has some cards up our sleeves, as the late Cathon used to say. Something we can create rather quickly. Just need to cannibalize some supply wagons, proofing caulk, and lots of naph." Borsy winked.

"Good. Surprise me." Vader grunted.

"Oh, and we have sieved the water from river." Borsy unplugged a water skin and poured some liquid out onto a pan. In the flickering torchlight, Arcanum could see the filmy water swirling, and he blanched at the smell emanating from it.

"We did our best to make it edible, short of distilling it." Borsy emptied his skin and capped it, "It tastes like dung, smells like dung. But it isn't dung. Though, you can't take my word on it."

"Dismissed, major." Vader said, tipping the pan over with a foot, spilling the water into the ground. Borsy gave a quick salute and left.

As the generals returned, Vader spread a large map on the ground, hastily surveyed by Borsy's Engineers Corps, and they began to plot the strategies of their defense. As the commanders brooded over the plan, Arcanum couldn't help but remember that no strategy survived contact with the enemy. As the generals deliberated over the map, messengers came and went, delivering progress reports and orders, flitting to and forth like moths to a flame.

Sometime later, Arcanum rubbed his eyes tiredly, and excused himself for a breather. He walked into the night to rest his mind and personally see the preparation. He had often felt useless with numbers and such (unless it pertained to his precious machines), and would rather physically interact with his men.

With all fuel in short supply, the camp was drenched in darkness, and Arcanum felt a shield of anonymity surrounding every shadowy figure in the camp, including himself. As he walked through the encampment, men who would avoid the general in the daylight would start up conversations with Arcanum, who found it rather refreshing.

Half the soldiers was asleep, the other working feverishly away. When Arcanum arrived near the river, he could already see the skeleton of the fieldworks stabbing forth from the soil. Arcanum could count around five rows of fieldworks, each a wall of spikes jutting out of the ground at an angle towards the river. _Four reserve fieldworks,_ Arcanum noted to himself, _for when the first wall fall._

Arcanum weaved his way through the narrow opening of the fieldworks, arriving at the waterfront. He could make out large, dark shapes bobbing far out on the river, which startled him at first.

"What are those things?" Arcanum pointed out those floating figures to a faceless soldier working nearby. The man seemed to peer up at the general's face, but apparently did recognize him.

"Some toys the specs cobbled up. Hulks of wagons, proofed and caulked." The soldier returned to his work.

Arcanum digested the man's statement slowly, remembered Borsy's earlier plan, and wished that he had learned more of the details. He studied the floating wagons for a time, but unable to see them clearly, he walked on. He came upon an engineer working a miniature catapult, firing caltrops into the river. When those sharp-headed steel traps landed in the river, they sunk to the bottom to lie in wait for the foot of a Trolloc. By now, the entire riverbed should be almost entirely blanketed by a coat of sharp spikes. Seeing the man work the mini-catapult, the Thunder Lord immediately asserted his birthright to all ballistic machines, and began to correct the man's inefficient aim, much to the engineer's annoyance. Finally, the man ran out of caltrops, and scurried away quickly, leaving the trop-flinger behind in his haste to get away.

Arcanum studied the far shore, lost in thought. The darkness was a cloak of protection, for the dawn would herald the arrival of the Shadowspawn horde that had destroyed more than half of the soldiers of the Light. He glanced to the east, and saw the faint pink haze of an approaching day. He could almost hear the heavy footsteps of the Trolloc Horde approach.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	12. Flight of the Red Eagle

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twelve: Flight of the Red Eagle**

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon rode quietly at the head of the other half of the Band, which mimicked their leader's hushed conduct. For all eyes drew up northwards towards the spire of Shayol Ghul, a destination many believed to be final and fatal. The Band of Red Hand crawled forth silently like a stalking jungle-cat, creeping upon its larger foe, claws and teeth bared to strike. It was also a silent mourning for those souls believed lost in Getty's Canyon, but who were actually now preparing their defenses and fieldworks.

Cathon felt the outline of his bandages covered by his shirt, and studied the lay of the land spread before him. Brooding, he glanced around, his dark eyes sweeping the land. Much of the Blasted Lands were shrouded in darkness, and shadows stretched across the ground from the pale light of the rising sun.

"Nathen." Cathon suddenly broke the brittle quiet, "Do you know the story of the founding of Manetheren."

"I do not believe so, sir." The adjutant replied, arching his eyebrow.

"It is a story truly all should know. The world was shattered by the Breaking, as you know. Then came two brothers, carved from stone by lightning, and life breathed into them by the Eternal Wheel. Don't roll your eyes at me, Nathen. They were raised by a wolf bitch, and grew up running with their wolfbrothers."

"Are you sure they weren't Lichs, sir? Or the Queens of the White Faeries?"

"Hush. They were named Safii and Jaralus, or it is said, who around a band of men and women was formed, a covenant, if you will, against the rising chaos. Sort of like us. Our precursors, if you will."

"So am I Safii or Jaralus?" Nathen interjected.

"And the two brothers lead their people into our land, and they came to a place of seven hills. And an eagle, Caldazar, flew overhead, and the brothers knew the sign.

"They made sacrifices to that raptor. Safii burnt his people's grain and fruits, offering stability and strength to Caldazar. Jaralus slew a great hart, whose majestic antlers bore all the colors of a rainbow, and laid the heart and entrails before him. The red eagle alighted before Jaralus, and accepted the man's gift of flesh and blood.

"Jerii, incensed by Caldazar's rejection, scorned Caldazar and his brother, and left westward. Some of the first people went with him, crossing the mountains to the west, dissolving into the barbaric bands soon to be Safer. Jaralus stayed and where Caldazar landed, built his City Upon The Hills, but known as Jara'copan, City of Jaralus, where it reigned as the capital of the Manetheren Empire for three hundred years. The capital was later moved into the Mountain Home with the advent of the Great Flood that inundated the world." Cathon finished his tale, and glancing to see Nathen Austern's reaction.

"That is an utterly _fascinating_ tale. Foundation-myth I think it's called. What brought up this mythical side, Lord General?"

"Caldazar flies with us once again." Cathon laughed deeply and gestured to the side. Nathen turned his head to see a red eagle perched upon a boulder, its intense eyes meeting the adjutant's gaze. It swept its immense scarlet wings back, and soared into the red-hued sky, circling above the Band. Cries and shouts came from the ranks, as men began to notice the fierce but undeniably noble creature above. When all the heads had turned upwards, the eagle gave a shriek, and glided westward. A second red eagle joined its kin, weaving through the air, westward.

"We go west!" Cathon called, "This tide has turned on this full sea we are now afloat. The Band will be united once more."

Life began to infuse the Band of Red Hand, the patched and tattered banner of Caldazar was held forth with new zeal. The red jungle cat changed directions, stalking westwards after Caldazar, hope rekindled.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	13. Primal Fight

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirteen: Primal Fight**

As the hours drew on, Stef Reimos strained to control his impatience. The Horde had arrived with the dawn, dark bodies covering the far shore, until nothing could be seen in the distance but the blackness of the shadowspawns. But they had not attacked yet, seemingly satisfied with waiting for all their numbers to gather, against the trapped Band. Reimos had a clear view of the gathering storm, as Hill's replacement, Drogan Tryth, seemed to follow the same philosophy of placing Reimos in the line of fire. Reimos' squad was positioned at a section of the first fieldworks, lined up behind the jagged wall. The sharp fieldworks designed to keep the Trollocs at bay and Reimos safe did not please the disgruntled sergeant at all. Of all the works he had worked behind, this had to be the shoddiest piece of sheep fodder...light, even a soft wind could probably blow the entire thing over. Half of it was scavenged wagon parts hastily sharpened to points; the other was some honed local sapling, which had to be burned to curtail their homicidal tendencies.

"Light, I wished we had some Saferi phalanxes with us right about now, barbarians though they be." Reimos grunted wistfully, "Our swords are too short for this kind of work. But as long as I'm wishing, I'd rather have all of the Saferi here, and me not here, with a mug of mulled ale and a fire." Glancing forward at the scorching sun, Reimos amended, "Or at least chilled wine in the shade of a tree that won't attempt to eat me."

"Yeah? That makes it two of us," Tayren wiped the sweat from his head, "What are the bloody spawns waiting for. They expect us to drop our weapons and surrender?"

Reimos spat on the ground, "You see any dreadlords? This can prove rather painful without the Aes Sedai."

"Can't see any. There might be some staying back of the front."

"Rations!" A soldier interrupted the conversation, tossing tacks to the stationed men. Reimos caught his hardtack with a grimy hand, and attempted, but failed, to break it in half.

"They should use these rations for the fieldworks. Well, so much for last meals. So much the pity." Tayren groused and kicked a strut in front of him. It made an uninspiring creaking noise, but held together.

"Tayren, you break that bloody thing, we're nailing you in as replacement. I spent half the light-forsaken night hammering it in." Reimos threatened him with his hardtack, when a shudder ran through the earth.

Reimos turned his head to the river, to see the overwhelming sight of the Trolloc lines plowing into the water, driving towards the Band. Reimos knew that though the Horde started slowly, like a boulder tumbling down a mountainside, it would soon become an unstoppable force.

Reimos flexed his sword hand, and waited for the boulder to hit. Thousands and thousands of shaggy Trollocs poured into the river. Scores began to drop, plummeting into the frothy water. The caltrops placed by the specs were doing their jobs with a vengeance. But though many shadowspawns fell splashing, and a faint red sheen appeared on the water surface, the Horde did not abate. Those who fell were trampled and drowned, but there were dozens for every one that fell. They pushed past the bobbing wagon hulks at the midpoint, and came within bow range.

Arrows took flight over Reimos' head, stabbing into the river and the Trollocs like a vengeful rain. The Shadowspawn was enclosed by a ceiling of arrows and a floor of spikes, but continued to plow through the river.

"GET READY!" Reimos bellowed, "It's our bloody turn!"

The sergeant stepped forth to the fieldwork braces as the first wave of frothing shadowspawn stepped upon shore, greeted by the wall of spikes. Reimos stabbed forth into the chest of a climbing Trolloc, who fell back with a death howl. Reimos moved quickly to strike down a second clambering Trolloc, and a third, a forth. Waves and waves of shadowspawns were beaching now, attacking the fieldworks with almost suicidal determination. The front line of the Band strived to keep the Trollocs from ascending the surprisingly resilient fieldwork.

However with waves of Trollocs slamming into the wall, parts of the support began to crumble, and shadowspawns began to break through. Reimos thrust up into a Trolloc who had almost managed to scale the works, pushing the corpse back over. However, this gave time for two Shadowspawn to climb over, their torsos scored with red from the spikes, but still healthy enough to put the soldier on the defensive.

Warding off the blows, Reimos heard the signal he was waiting for, the beating of swords against shields, echoing down the lines, as more soldiers took it up. Reimos gave a cursory tap with his sword while backing away from the fieldworks and shouted, "MOVE BACK!"

Other officers had also taken up the call, and the entire infantry line shifted away from the fieldwork. Only a bright flare and a loud crackling noise signaled the sudden arrival of the fire chewing through the fieldworks. Flammable Naphtha rested in a shallow pit dug beneath the fieldworks and also soaked the wood of the supports. With the front line about to break, the designated soldiers had thrown burning torches into the wall, causing flames to race down the naph-soaked fieldworks.

Swarms of Trollocs had begun scaling the fieldworks without the humans warding them off, when their beady eyes caught sight of the approaching inferno. The shadowspawn attempted to leap back from their perches, but were stopped by the press of their fellow Trollocs behind. The fire tore through the fieldworks, burning hotly from the naph, chewing through wood and flesh alike. Howls of pain infused the air, and a blackened mass fell off the burning wall in front of Reimos.

A wall of fire now separated the bulk of the Horde and the Band of Red Hand, buying them valuable time. Reimos' squad quickly finished up the remnants of the Trollocs' advance wave, and retreated back towards the second fieldwork. Keeping together, they streamed through the narrow openings and took up a new position at the second work.

"We got over-run too bloody fast." Reimos cursed, "We only got four left."

"We're dead otherwise." A soldier growled.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not rolling over for a spawn." Reimos growled. The fire of the first fieldwork began to die down, and Trollocs began to swarm through again, pounding against the fieldworks.

The Band of Red Hand soon found themselves at the last fieldwork, the black ashes of the first four fieldworks a testament to the day's trials. Though at each wall, they had slain thousands of shadowspawn, the Horde kept throwing itself at the besieged humans.

"We need a bloody miracle to get us out of this mess." Reimos muttered to himself as he fought to dislodge a Trolloc from the work, "What the bloody hell is Vader waiting for?"

As Reimos ducked below the reach of a climbing Trolloc, he heard a distant bugle. Not from behind him, but faintly in front of him. The horn came again, its clarity pointing to a human origin.

Then a bird flew over the fraught Band, a bird of magnificence and grace, a red eagle. The sigil of their home lent Reimos strength once more, his tired spirit propped up. He heard himself shouting, "_Carai an Caldazar!_", and attacking forward with a fury that surprised even him.

Stabbing in through the mist that veiled his mind was the distant horn, growing in intensity and volume, its origin growing closer and closer. The men around Reimos had taken up the cries, their swords clearing shadowspawn from the wall.

A Trolloc in front of Reimos fell headless from the fieldwork, giving the soldier a view of the river and distant coast. Past the waterway, the Horde had begun to mill in chaos, as a host of humans tore into them from the other side. A host of red-cloaked soldiers bearing the standard of the Caldazar and Red Hand.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	14. The Burning Rivers

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter 14: The Burning Rivers**

Diest Arcanum shouted above the din of battle, "THEY'RE BREAKING. TARGET THE FADES!"

Missiles arched through the air, slamming down among the Trolloc ranks. The leading Fades' luck could not overcome the sheer number of boulders slamming down from above. The rapid death of many of the Horde's leaders threw the shadowspawn ranks into further confusion. The Band's infantry lines switched quickly to offensive, cutting away at the retreating Trollocs. Across the river, the other half of the Band was slicing through the Horde flanks, forcing the panicking shadowspawns towards the river. The arrival of the soldiers who had been presumed dead had momentarily stunned both sides, but the Band had recovered quickly.

Lightning scored from the heavens, stabbing into the ranks of the shadowspawn. _So, the Aes Sedai survived,_ Arcanum reflected, _and perhaps Cathon as well_.

A small flash of red pierced through the air, the great crimson eagle clawing at the face of a goat-faced Trolloc. The Red Hand closed in from both sides, hemming the shadowspawn into the water, but resistance soon hardened in the Horde. Though they had taken heavy casualty from the surprise flank attack, the shadowspawns still outnumbered the combined Band at least two to one, and with the surviving Fades driving them on, they began to fight back. If actions were not taken, the Trollocs would recover to devastate the humans, and were already delivering a punishing counter-offensive.

This was the moment Arcanum was waiting for. The surprisingly fast progress of the Trollocs had quickly placed the catapults out of range of the river. The general had been caught off-guard, waiting to bide his time for the best time, and could not unleash the surprise Borsy had set up. He had cursed his own greed when his legion was forced to relocate away from the Trolloc advances. But now, with the Band grabbing back lost ground, and the majority of the Horde bottled up in the river, it proved to be the tantalizing target for which Arcanum had waited.

"BLOW THE HULKS!" Arcanum bellowed, his voice carrying across the small rising in which the Thunder Legion had set up advance position. The cats' carriages snapped their load up, arching up and slamming into thick knots of Trollocs in the river. But, their true targets were the buoyant wagons bobbing in the water, which were smashed by the arriving rocks. The splintered hulks soon leaked their glistening load into the river. The witch's brew spread across the top of the water, the current stretching the black liquid around the Trolloc Horde.

Streaks of light arched from positions near the front lines, as archers dipped their arrows into the firepots and let loose at the river. Where the rain of glowing arrows touched the water, tongues of flames licked the surface, inferno swelling forth. Within seconds, the river was embroiled in a firestorm that swallowed the Horde. Trollocs that broke free were cut down as the humans closed in. Those who did not die to blades were driven to a fiery death. The Trolloc counterassault deteriorated to chaos, as they found disciplined soldiers to the front and an inferno to their back. The Band of Red Hand was merciless, forcing the last Trollocs to their death in the smoking blaze.

With the victory nigh, medics swarmed the fields, bringing in the wounded and dying, setting up camp near Arcanum's station. A particular arrival caught Arcanum's eye, a man whose entire skin surface was a mass of blisters and burns.

"Borsy?" The general hurried over to the prone shape, lying on the makeshift cot. The man opened his blood-shot eyes and gazed up at Arcanum. The Thunder Lord knew immediately that the Chief Engineer would not survive his devastating injuries.

Drov Borsy opened his cracked lips slightly, "Killed by my own creation."

This was followed by a soft raspy chuckling noise, and than Borsy sighed, "Got caught in the collapse of a burning fieldwork. The soldier who dragged me out...should've left me there. Only postponing..."

The engineer's eyes clouded for a second, then refocused, "Afraid I can't make that...design of yours, Diest. Leis Nosi...will take over. He's a good man. My cards were on the table, but I...got trumped."

Borsy sighed once more, before descending into final silence.

Arcanum kneeled silently for a moment, then detached the man's tattered and burnt cloak and placed it over the blackened corpse. In a quiet voice unlike his namesake, he murmured, "May you find the way to Manetheren, my friend."

Arcanum stood up and watched the final moments of the battle. The river fire burned hot, consuming the bodies of its victims, its thick, black plume rising into the air. Two red eagles flew around the pillar of smoke, dancing ever upwards. The wall of fire separated the two halves of the Band, but would soon expire.

"Thank you, Caldazar." Arcanum called to the eagles as they disappeared into the cloud. A single red feather floated down, alighting upon Borsy's body.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	15. Red Flood

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Fifteen: Red Flood**

The Band of Red Hand stood united before the river of smoldering smoke, the fire's thirst quenched. A spirit of joy and victory suffused the red-cloaked soldiers who had seized victory from the teeth of the Horde. The loss at Getty's Canyon was only a faint memory to the infused soldiers of Manetheren.

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon felt that elation rising, a sort of weightless after the long ages of bearing a heavy burden, a victory long awaited for, a victory so sweet. He stood before the cheering soldiers, the smoking sign of their victory bellowing up behind him.

"It seems your luck still remains, General?" Airene Andalusa gave him a quirked smile, "So, you were right after all."

"High praise from you, my dear Airene." Cathon grinned back, and feeling the light spirit of the moment, kneeled and kissed her hand. The Aes Sedai touched his cheek lightly and curtsied. She stepped back to allow Vader to greet Cathon.

"Sir, welcome back to the land of the living," Stren Vader kneeled before Cathon, "I return the office of the Marshall-General back to your hands."

"You have done well, Bastion. If were to leave in earnest for the land beyond, I will know that the Band will remain well in your able hands, as we had seen today." Cathon placed his hands around the general's shoulder.

Vader stood up, and the two Marshall-Generals clasped hands, the final sign that the Band was whole once more. Vader bowed off, and Cathon turned to face his men.

"True sons of Manetheren!" Cathon shouted over the cheers of the soldiers, "Caldazar has given us this chance, has brought us together once more, for that task that remains. The enemy that hounded us has been destroyed, but the greater enemy still awaits. Though we have become one once more, we have suffered grievously. From Getty's Canyon to this Burning Rivers, we have lost over twenty thousand men of Manetheren, including Lieutenant-General Hill of Zephyr Hawk Legion and countless others. Buried in a strange land far from home.

"But we still stand. For we are the steel of Manetheren. Though the Hordes have stolen the secret of that metal from the Homeland, they have not mastered the art. They may be stronger, but they are brittle, and will break with a heavy blow. Steel will win over iron, for we will keep on, no matter how beleaguered and battered we are. For they fight for blood and greed, we fight for Manetheren.

"Let the shadows tremble in fear. Let the creatures of darkness howl in terror. Let the black flood churn in dread. For the Band of Red Hand approaches. We have paid the Butcher's Bill too long. It is time to challenge the Butcher himself.

"We bring the blade of red fire to consume the shadows. We bring the chalice of red blood to cleanse the land. We bring the talons of the red eagle to pull down the Fortress of Night. We bring the Red Hand to strangle the Dark One in his own parlor.

"Let the red flood flow forward, for we cannot be stopped. We are the Curse of the Blasted Lands, the Foe of the Shadow, and the Thorn in the Dark One's Side. To Shayol Ghul we march this day! And arrive at last tomorrow!

"Forward the Band of Red Hand! Forward the Caldazar, Forward Manetheren!"

"_Shen an Calhar! Shen an Calhar!_"

"To Shayol Ghul we march!"

The roar of the soldiers stirred the air, the calls of the men who dared to defy the gods themselves.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	16. In the Shadow of Shayol Ghul

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Sixteen: In The Shadow of Shayol Ghul**

Every red-cloaked soldier knew they were at the final league; their destination loomed ever higher. But they were driven, the victory the day before lightening their weight, and the wings of Caldazar drove them forth. As the sun began to dip in the sky, the Band stopped at the edge of a canyon whose interior was immersed in fog, through which a giant spire rose forth, its peak disappearing far above.

"_Thakan'dar_." Stef Reimos whispered, tales of his youth returning to his mind. The eternally shrouded valley where the Black Miasma rests, cold as death itself, and half as forgiving. The Band began to circle around the high cliff, seeking an incline down and a place to rest. Reimos was caught off guard when he walked under the limbs of a massive tree, for this one looked quite...deader...than the other foliage of the Blasted Lands. His sweeping gaze saw that they had entered a forest, sprawling forth, disappearing into the fog, and beyond in the other direction. These trees did not reach or grab at the passing soldiers, and though their barks were marked by bores and blisters, lacked the sickly growths that the Band had often encountered. In fact, these trees would not be amiss growing in the Westwoods.

"Even the Horde needs healthy wood for their furnaces and war machines." Tayren said, reading Reimos' mind, "Though they probably burn souls for fuel, or what not. But still, I am sure that it would be quiet inconvenient for the Shadow Army to fight every tree they needed to use."

"Something that we will find quite advantageous." Cordin Brogan joined in.

The Band came to a clearing in this forest, presenting all the soldiers with an unadulterated view of Shayol Ghul. The Valley of Thakandar sloped upwards at an almost gentile incline, which Reimos realized was the main path. The forest grew to the left, and Thakandar steeped to the right.

"So we have arrived." Reimos breathed heavily, his eyes traveling up the black bulk. What the bloody hell were they thinking? There was no way they could take this aptly-named bastion. But he locked away those doubts, and followed the orders to set up camp.

A messenger rode past, to gather companies for wood duty. Reimos was finally glad that his was not "volunteered" this time, giving an audible sigh at the messenger's back. Though the majority of the timber went towards the huge tower-thing growing high up near the back of the camp, companies were allotted small portions.

Reimos took his company's share eagerly, starting a bon-fire as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Though the fire was not needed in the muggy weather, it, well, felt _good_. In the darkness is where men are most vulnerable, their strongest tools useless. Near the pinnacle of evil, it gave the men confidence to have a fire that crackled and popped and took their attention from the morrow's target. Reimos thought he knew what the primitive men must have felt when they created fire, for it gave a sense of power to the wielder. The camps had been immersed so long in darkness because of lack of fuel, the return of the fire was like the homecoming of a dear friend.

And as tradition dictated, the men around the fires began to break into story, of tales of the places they've been and their lives. Reimos felt better than he has been for a long time, sitting next to the dancing flame, and listening to the stories of his companions.

And then it was the sergeant's turn, and as he gazed at the fire for a moment, started to speak.

"Well, my life began middling. Born in the city of Corartheren, son of a linen draper gone soldier. Life was hard, but then I don't need to tell you that. The war had been draining, many houses were abandoned, and food was expensive. Then my father went to the Band while I was seven. I grew up by myself generally, teaching and raising myself on the street. Had no father figures, since any able men were gone fighting.

"So, I joined the Post Sentries (lied about my age of course), and found myself stationed up near Jaramide. Well, the part that was still Jaramide that is, the Shadowspawn having run over the majority of it. I got stationed with a real bastard, named Tayren Suturb. In fact, he was very much like our dear loveable Tayren Suturb. Well, I learned to fight, and luck brought me out of situations where I should've perished. We passed messages on for the partisans, and learned how to ghost stalk. Well, sort of. It was a hell of a time. We were set alone in a war torn zone with few experience and equipment. I can't even count how many times we barely escaped a Trolloc pot.

"The worst was probably the time that our entire sector was over-run by a Dreadlord and his cronies. When our base was discovered, we ended up on a dead run, dodging through dense foliage with them two steps behind us. At a gut wrenching time, Tayren must have hit a root of something—and I thought I had lost him, because a Trolloc patrol immediately jumped on us. But, I scrambled free, dove through a deep cluster of thorn brushes, which gave me enough head start to reach the closest green sector at dawn. Tayren showed up half a day later, nonchalantly, and we went back to work as if nothing had happened.

"Then, I got posted to Aelgar for basic training. I spent a couple months in the Monastery of the Moon by Ancohima. Didn't really like the Order of Black Moon, but I did learn a few moves. But give me a sword any day. I'd like to see even of one of their Master of the Order throw a five hundred pound Trolloc.

"Well, my time was up, and I returned to Manetheren. Then my ma died during a bad winter, and Light, I had nothing to stay for. I enlisted in the Band, and got made sergeant since all the other experience soldiers' were getting their head chopped off. And, here I am. Sitting outside the gates of the bloody Pit of Doom." Reimos finished. He felt...strange...that his entire life story has gone out, all his life's aspirations and hopes summed up in some sentences. As he sat in the light of the flickering fire listening to someone's life, mortality intruded in his thoughts.

Reimos twisted his lips at the irony, for after such years in battle with creatures bred to kill, he had began to feel the touch of transience in his thoughts. Yeah, he had bouts of nerves when faced with rampaging beasts, but truly now did he realize the briefness of his own life. He felt the guilt and regrets of his life. If he could just go back through time, to be with his mother when she needed instead of proving his manhood in the Jaramide posts. If he could just done all he should've done, instead of being the bloody idiot he had been. If only, if only. To face a future in a shallow pit, or to be a lifeless man like his father...

Speaking of whom, he had not seen Jorj much since the Shayol Ghul campaign, only fleeting sights of someone who could have been. His father had severed all his connections, and the son seemed to be following in the same footsteps.

Reimos clenched his fists until they began to throb in pain, wonderful pain. Pain taught you that you're still alive. Pain, was in essence, life. Pain kept Reimos going, pain kept him alive. Reimos sighed, clearing those thoughts from his mind. The battle for Shayol Ghul begins the next day. If it could be brought down, the war would be over, and a child, like he had once been, could have a father and the mother Reimos had lost.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	17. Wings of the Night

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Seventeen: Wings of the Night**

"The Marshall-General has called a staff meeting." The messenger called to Arcanum, who waved him off with a dismissive hand. The general returned to his study of the beautiful item resting on the makeshift table inside the E-Corps' scavenged tent.

"The woodwork is excellent, in the present circumstances." Arcanum touched the piece, "And the design seems to operate tactically. But it should, since it was mine after all."

"Yes, sir." Leis Nosi agreed, "Borsy had the main drafts all set up. We only needed the wood that we have found. It might not be sungwood, but it will do for its purpose."

Arcanum picked up the item and hefted it in his arms. It was a giant cross-bow, or to be more precise, a scaled down Ballista. The surface was unfinished, but to the general's eyes, it seemed to glisten. He touched the loaded bolt and grunted satisfactory at its sharpness.

"The Arbalest." Arcanum murmured thoughtfully to himself, "How many of these can you provide me?"

"Well, currently most of the Corps is occupied with your Siege Trebuchets. But we have about five Arbalests in operational order."

Arcanum glanced up through the cracks of the makeshift tent, towards the three black shapes looming up high into the sky. The three siege trebuchets were capable of launching a 2000-stones boulder over nearly a league. While its massive size made it impractical for the roving ways of the Band, it was perfect for a siege of a fortress. Though, Arcanum had much doubts of its use against Shayol Ghul.

"Five will be enough. Keep focusing on the Three Idylls. If we can't crack the shell off that fat egg, we won't be able to do much of anything."

"We have made significant progress. But we have had setbacks with the departure of Borsy." Leis Nosi shook his head sadly, "We've taken a heavy pounding in the ranks, especially at Burning Rivers, victory or not. Many a brilliant minds like Borsy died on the fieldworks as reserves. But the Arbalests will reach completion by morning. Though since we dumped all our naph and brew in that river, we will have to make use with mundane stones. Airene Sedai did offer to ward some of our rounds as well."

"Good, then that is all I needed to know. I must go see what Cathon wants." Arcanum turned to leave when the entire top of the cobbled tent collapsed. Arcanum hewed his way out with his sword, throwing the canvas from his head with a curse. He looked up and stared into the eyes of a pale winged man. Arcanum tried to bring up a sword, but he was frozen upon the spot, his muscles paralyzed by the strange cooing emanating from the creature, like a siren's song.

Arcanum could only look up into the inhuman eyes as it approached. Something whistled hard past the captured general's ears and stabbing into the creature's chest. And exploded out of its back. And stabbed into the ground thirty paces behind the collapsing creature.

"Bloody Draghkar." Arcanum found his voice, his sword swinging forth to decapitate the already dead shadowspawn.

"At least we know this thing worked." Leis Nosi walked up, the Arbalist slung on his shoulder, "Overkill, if there is such a thing in war."

"It is not tactical sense to send one of these creatures to kill even a general, unless...raise the alarm, Nosi. If I'm right, there's more Draghkars around. A lot more."

Arcanum crumpled up some parchment to stuff in his ears, before grabbing the Arbalist and bolt pouch from Nosi, who left at a run. Arcanum jammed in a fresh bolt and winched it up as he raced towards the more populous areas.

The swishing of a fast-moving object was the only warning before something hit him in the back, sending him sprawling. Arcanum watched his arbalest spin away, but rolled to a crouch. He pulled out his sword and jammed it into the chest of the poised Draghker, who instead gurgled and tumbled.

Arcanum pulled out his blade and kept it at ready as he retrieved his arbalest. He could hear shouts and calls from the once quiet camp, the sign of a massive raid. As he sprinted closer towards the sleeping areas, he could hear the ring of steel and the shriek of arrows. In the dead of night, he almost tripped over a body. Glancing down at the red-cloaked corpse, Arcanum blanched. Even in the dim light, it looked like something has sucked all the life out of it, its face frozen in surprise.

Arcanum came upon a still raging battle, a squad of men attacking a flying Draghkar who managed to elude their reaches. Arcanum brought his arbalest to bear, checked the aim, and let fly with its bolt.

The Draghker fell like a stone.

Arcanum gave a grunt of satisfaction and reached back to discover that there was only one bolt left. He was loading it when the sentry alarms began to go off. Bugles shattered the night with their warning calls, and black hulking shapes began to stalk into the camp. The general cursed as he tried to ram the bolt into its locking carriage, as the shapes grew closer.

A grotesque bear-head loomed down at the general, when Arcanum stabbed him through the muzzle with his sword. Arcanum pulled his blade out, warm liquid dripping down into his hands. He gave up on the arbalest and began to retreat from the fringe of the camp. The Draghkers had tried to work a diversion, for this coming onslaught, and Arcanum did not feel like fighting it alone.

Rallying calls filled the night, as the Band of Red Hand recovered from the surprise attack. Knots of men formed up, and began to cut up the lone elements still present in the camp interior, and turned to face the Trollocs charging in. The fighting turned to close quarter melee, the most dangerous kind when facing creatures of larger girth and strength.

With much of the camp in turmoil, Arcanum began to call out orders to the defenders. Recognizing the general, soldiers began to rally around, a dangerous obstacle in the spawns' way. Like a blacksmith's hammer, Arcanum's company slammed into the Trolloc forces.

Arcanum slashed across a Trolloc's face, and kicked him back, to reveal the figure of an eyeless rider gazing down. Arcanum swung his arbalest up and fired, the bolt stabbing forth. The Fade grabbed the bolt in mid-flight, and snapped it contemptuously. The creature sneered and struck forth. Arcanum barely parried the blow, saved by his rapier training. Though his swordsmanship was not on par with Cathon's, he could manage his own.

The Fade did not realize that his minions lay dead around, and only too late did he realize that he was surrounded by Arcanum's men. It twisted its sword around, to hew a way out, but succeeded in only shattered a soldier's upraised iron shield. Arcanum took the opportunity to swing the arbalest into the Fade's face, its hard edge splintering upon impact. Arcanum's second blow was with his blood-blackened sword, severing the shadowspawn's milky white visage from its neck.

In one motion, the soldiers ducked away, as the corpse shivered and thrashed, and finally stilled when it apparently realized that it was past sundown.

Arcanum glanced around to see only the figures of humans, with the Trolloc raid quashed. He glanced at his sword, hammered of the best Manetheren steel, drenched in the corrosive spawn ichors. He withdrew a handkerchief and wiped clean his sword to the best of his abilities, and threw away the dissolving shred of cloth. He regarded the bodies lying around, and bid good duty to the men who had rallied around him.

As the soldiers began to dissolve into the night, Arcanum remembered that he had a meeting to attend. He sheathed his sword, gazed sadly upon the shattered remains of the arbalest spread across the ground and strolled away toward the direction of HQ.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	18. Caldazar's Gifts

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Eighteen: Caldazar's Gifts**

Lawe Cathon breathed in and felt the old chest wound throb with a dull pain, the result of the recent activity. He was not a young man anymore, and close-quarter battle was a laborious exercise. He was too proud a man to acknowledge this fact though, and instead of entreating Airene for a healing, kept this hidden, even when she flat out asked him.

"_Old_ man, are you sure that you are okay?" The Aes Sedai glanced at the general, her green eyes flashing.

"Twas nothing you need to mind yourself of, Airene Sedai." Cathon replied, hiding a wince at the sudden effort, and reminded himself to take smaller breath. He glanced at the shredded remains of the already mutilated HQ tent and sighed. The Draghkers had brought down the canvas upon the heads of the congregating generals and attempted to pick them off one-by-one. But, there was hell to pay as the generals were not unacquainted with swordplay. Cathon did not dishonor his Aristocracy training, and personally brought down two of the shadow's assassins. When Airene and Warder came upon the scene, it was all over for the Dragkhers. To which, the commanders turned towards the routing of the Trolloc raid.

With the beasts' corpses being dragged away from camp (out of healthy fear of their being agents of contagion), the site returned to a semblance of order, and the generals, patched and healed, returned their attention back to the summit.

"Well, it does seem that we must hold this meeting outside." Cathon said, and nodded to Airene, who waved a hand. Though Cathon saw nothing, he knew a ward against wandering ears had enveloped the generals. A shape approaching the congregation soon showed himself to be Arcanum, who entered the sphere after being verified by Warder.

"We have all arrived thus." Cathon cleared his throat, "Well, this assault of the Shadowspawn will not hold us from our attack tomorrow."

"Should not have Airene Sedai's wards given warning of the Draghkers?" Arcanum spoke up.

"My wards, so close to the core of the Dark One, are failing." Airene coolly remarked, "This is the Sightblinder's domain, and I hold little power here. Simply put, I will be unable to assist in any ways your assault in the morrow. Channeling in _Thakan'dar_ is a death sentence for even those who are under the Dark One's guide. But I will put up wards against Nightstalkers or Phantom Blades tonight. I believe they will hold up, but I cannot guarantee it."

"We strike quarterday after dawn." Cathon said, "Dawn and dusk are immediately ruled out, for as we all must know, the Dark One has his greatest strength during the death of day or night. Through the section of Thakan'dar we perceive to be the main pass. And for the Gates of Night, we leave that to Arcanum."

"As you all see, the Siege Trebuchets are near completion." Arcanum said, "And guarded now with the E-Corps' newest machines, the Arbalests. Trust me, that unless the Gates are made of _cuendillar_, they will break."

"Shayol Ghul and Thakan'dar will be the heaviest challenge the Band will ever face." Airene Sedai watched each general's face carefully, "All of you will be entering directly into the Dark One's sphere of influence. Close as we are, tonight, no men will be able to sleep, for all they will dream are nightmares and incubus. Fear and despair will take them tomorrow, no matter their blood. I will not lie to say that my doubts are great upon any chance of success on your siege."

"I am quite disappointed that you will be unable to lend us aid, though I do not wish to risk you." Cathon said softly, "But this is a task for Manetheren, and with Manetheren shall we win."

The Marshall-General leaned and picked up a simple red-gold container from the ground by his feet. As the box rotated through the air, its exterior gleamed softly, a testament to long hours of polishing. A small gold eagle adorned the otherwise plain cover, and was smooth all around, showing no cracks of openings.

"A dagger if you will." Cathon asked, his hands moving across the box, feeling its smoothness. Notar hesitated and then drew a bronze-hilted dagger, placing it in the proffered hand. Cathon nodded to Notar, and placed the edge blade against his left thumb and drew it across the skin. A thin trail of blood gleamed in the torchlight as he turned his hand above the container, and squeezed out drops of blood from his cut. The droplets fell upon the red-gold box, pooling for a moment before soaking into the metal.

A line sliced across the box's exterior, enlarging to reveal the opening that was not there before. Cathon returned Notar's stiletto, and opened the box to reveal its interior.

Vader, a Second Lord of Manetheren and almost as well a study of history as Cathon, was the first to recognize the objects, "Light, Cathon. The Shells!"

Airene narrowed her eyes at the items cradled in the box, "Shells?"

"If you will permit me, Cathon." Vader received the container from Cathon, staring into it with amazement, "How is it you possess this?"

"I am a First Lord of Manetheren and have all rights to the Shells of Caldazar."

"If you will excuse my impertinence," Tryth grunted, "But I've never heard of these Shells of Caldazar."

"Allow me, Cathon..." Vader said, "Some call it but an artifact of history, others the true source of power for Manetheren. In the years following the Founding, came the time known as the False Dusk. A creature of the Dark One, stronger than any that ever existed and now long dead, came into the world of the Living. Upon the Day of _Umbri_, the creature swallowed the Sun as all watched, to the amazement of even the staunchest skeptics. Queen Sorella ay Marena asked the aid of Caldazar, who has been the patron of Manetheren since the days of Jaralus. And in that battle, the creature consumed Caldazar as well, but before she died, she clawed open the belly of the Shadow Maw from within, and the sun fell from the Maw, falling upon the earth of Manetheren, falling upon the nest of Caldazar. And where it touched, a mountain of fire rose.

"Now all accounts say that Sorella came to the Mountains, walking through the rivers of fire, to the nest of Caldazar. The egg had been shattered by the fall of the Sun, but the young red eagle survived; Caldazar was reborn in the fire, and took to the skies. And Sorella sung her praise, and took the six pieces of the eggshell, whose power Caldazar had bound to its own. And Sorella and Caldazar banished the Shadow Maw to whence it came, and pulled the sun back into the sky.

"The mountains of fire died, and in its place stood the Misty Mountain, and where the nest of Caldazar perched, Sorella placed the city of Manetheren, and set the shells to metal and chains. And the shells were passed on from generations to generations, under protection of the Monarch and Lords, for the time of the Last Defense of Manetheren."

"The Shells of Caldazar will allow our victory tomorrow, as it allowed Sorella's banishment of the Shadow Maw." Cathon took the container, and slowly withdrew each of the six items. They did not look to be shells, but shimmering medallions, dangling by silver chains. "It is my strongest advice that each general wear this during the attack, for you will be awarded some protection against the Dark One's touch. I do not make promises, for this is His Domain. But they are better than nothing."

Cathon carefully placed each medallion into the hands of the generals, "And to how I possess this, I will tell you. When King Aemon pledged the Band to the Covenant immediately after his coronation, he handed the Cradle of the Shells to Marshall-General Prodis, First Lord, and said, 'Manetheren is with you, for you _are_ Manetheren. Go with the Shells of Caldazar, in the last defense of Manetheren.' And, when Prodis died at Wikun's Folly, the Shells were passed to me. And the destruction of Shayol Ghul will preserve Manetheren's safety, for can anything else be the Last Defense of Manetheren?"

Cathon finished, and stood silent for a moment, "That is all we have tonight. You each know your personal orders. Dismissed."

Cathon fastened the medallion upon his own neck, and gazed up quietly up at the heavens, as the generals departed. He was brought out of contemplation when he realized that Jot Diadrem still remained.

"Marshall-General, sir." Diadrem said, his hand still holding his Shell, "I regret to say that I will not be able to wear this tomorrow."

When Cathon arched his brow, Diadrem continued, "My men do not receive this protection that I do. And I will not go into battle knowing that I am at less risk than they are. I ask the same of them that I ask of myself. I cannot."

Diadrem placed the medallion in Cathon's hands, saluted smartly, and left.

Cathon glanced at Diadrem's Shell, and slowly placed it back in its Cradle, sealing it.

"Cathon, do you truly believe that you can take Shayol Ghul? That those medallions will protect your men?" Airene Sedai asked, now standing alone with the general.

"That is a question I ask myself time after time." Cathon replied, "But do not think that I am insane to attack Shayol Ghul. I am not so foolish to think that I will raze the walls of the Black Bastion and kill the Dark One in a duel. The Pits of Doom and the Seal and Bore I will not disturb."

"Then what is you are attempting to accomplish?"

"I am not irrational. Many reasons dictate this attack. Shayol Ghul is the breeding grounds of the Shadowspawn. Slay the spawns of the spawns, and slay their mothers, and the War Machine of the Dark One grinds to a halt. Enough time for the Covenant to recover and prepare.

"The war is wearing the nations out, and there is no end to sight. A titular destruction of the seat of the Shadow will do much to restore faith.

"Finally, I ask you, Airene Sedai, why after all those long years after the Breaking had the Trollocs stormed Barsine, to start the Trolloc Wars. Why had they not begun earlier before the Covenant was even formed? Creatures of strength they are. Creatures of intelligence and planning they are not. For such organization in this war, they are driven by something. Some_one_. The Dark One is still sealed, so they take command from someone else. Who do you think planted that forest? Would the Dark One care if his minions are efficient or not? The driving forth of the Trolloc resides in Shayol Ghul. The General, if you will, must die. And when he dies, the Trollocs will lose their leadership and falter.

"_That_ is why we are here. Not for some delusion of grandeur, but for the cold, listed reasons of stopping this _War_." Cathon finished almost at a shout, and composed himself. The pair was surrounded by silence, before the Aes Sedai changed the subject.

"And the Shells of _Caldazar_, Cathon?" She asked, her eyes glancing down at the closed box, "How is it that few know of this?"

"Matters of Manetheren are matters of Manetheren, Airene." Cathon glanced at Airene. With the high shadows cast by the torches, Cathon realized the Aes Sedai looked quite bewitching, though she might have found the term offensive.

The Aes Sedai accepted his explanation, and glided closer, touching the medallion hanging from his neck, "An odd artifact...I have never seen anything quite like this. That design, especially. If..."

Cathon felt icy coldness seeping through his shirt from the medallion, and Airene drew back in surprise. It was one of the few times Cathon had seen Airene so astounded, her eyes widening.

"Are you alright?" Cathon moved towards her.

"I...my..." Airene looked up at Cathon, "It's failing so close to Shayol Ghul..."

The Airene almost ran away into the darkness, Warder taking up her side. Cathon looked down at his medallion, and slowly traced his fingers over the foxhead engraved upon the Shell.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	19. The Fog of Dreams

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Nineteen: The Fog of Dreams**

The shadows stalked Stef Reimos. Wherever he turned, he could see a blur of motion at the edge of his eyes. But, when he turned to look, he only saw murky mist. The shadows taunted him with shrieking voices with words almost recognizable but alien in meanings. Fingers of cold touched him, scratching at him with banshee cries. Reimos felt trapped in a vortex of murky haze; every direction was the same, like an impenetrable prison wall. And the shadows followed.

Reimos drew his sword and turned to face the shadow creature. It was a figure of swirling black smoke, and it did not run this time. A shadow sword appeared in its hand, and Reimos thought he detected a sneer on the faceless visage.

Reimos struck forth and was parried aside by the ethereal blade. The two combatants fought forward and back, swords colliding in silence. Back and forth. The shadow man knew all of Reimos' moves, blocking all of his advances. Reimos had a difficult time following the movement of the assailant, whose edges blurred into the background.

And as they fought, the mist shrieked in Reimos' ears, tendrils of dread curling around his skin. Unseen eyes watched and waited, unseen hands grabbing at him. Reimos recoiled from the grasping wisps of shadows, his sword swinging frantically. The shadow man kept advancing, the fog around him becoming solid, trapping Reimos in an opaque prison. Reimos felt like he was strangling, the fog choking his lungs. He clawed at the walls of his prison, his sword cutting harmlessly through the air.

He spun around in a desperate lunge, his sword cutting through his opponent armor and helmet effortlessly. The head of the shadow man fell, its body dissipating into the mist. Reimos glanced down at the decapitated head, whose features began to appear, and shift like hot wax to a face so familiar. It was Tayren. The figure's eyes locked on his and grabbed his tunic with bloodied hands.

"Burn it, Stef." Tayren grunted, his hands warding off Reimos' blow.

Reimos sat up, shaking his head clear of drowsiness. His head was stained with sweat, and his clothes stuck wetly to his skin. The last vestige of the nightmare slowly faded away, but it left a bitter taste behind.

"Bad dream?" Tayren seemed to sneer in the colorless light. He offered a hand and helped pull Reimos up.

"Yeah. Yeah, you could say that." Reimos stretched his cramped muscles. His legs and arms were sore, and his hands felt numb from lost circulation.

"I'm surprised you actually slept last night." Tayren grunted, picking up Reimos' crumpled cloak and tossing it to him, "Most of the camp was up. Nightmares, incubus, whatever you call it. I was up all night, and I was ready to kill you for being able to sleep half the time, you bastard."

"Well, I was always a deep sleeper." Reimos glanced at the black circles under Tayren's eyes, "But I didn't get much rest anyway. So what was yours?"

Tayren eyed Reimos, "My business."

Reimos shrugged it off and glanced around to see his squad doing final checks on their equipment, "So are we moving off?"

Tayren glanced at the sun high in the sky, "Yeah, orders just came around. The siege begins. You get three guesses at what we drew, and the first two guesses don't count."

"Light, damn the generals! Front lines?"

"Your favorite." Tayren scrubbed at his unkempt hair and give a toothy but halfhearted grin.

Reimos cursed but accepted his bloody fate, "Alright, get the squad going. The earlier we get in position, the earlier we can resume duty as meat shield."

With that, the men of Reimos' squad finished decamping and moved towards the waiting lip of Thakan'dar. Messengers and mounted soldiers raced around, delivering last-minute notices, jostling Reimos and earning his curses. One of those notices found Reimos' hand, which he tossed away after a brief glance.

"Alright, looks like Zephyr Hawk's taking the middle of three vans. We are that bloody spearhead, the first in the foray, the first out dead," Reimos bellowed, "Any men with a problem with that, petition the new shiny commander of ours and see how that works out."

Reimos found a spot in the middle van and found he was afforded a considerable view of the valley of Thakan'dar arrayed before. To his estimation, it was about three leagues long, three leagues of blind combat, the worst kind. Visibility and communications will be at a minimum, placing the Band at a horrible disadvantage. Another Getty's Valley, with half the visibility and double the danger.

Horns began to signal, which Reimos at first thought to be the starting signal. Before he signaled his men forward though, he noticed mounted horsemen approaching.

They were considerably armored, but were generally arrayed like the light cavalry. However, what was most surprising was that they were the generals, save for the Thunderlord. As they approached the front of the vans, they split up, each spreading among the front of the foot soldiers. Right before Reimos, the gaunt figure of Drogan Tryth glanced down at his Legion along with the striking face of Lawe Cathon.

"We will be riding with you this day." Cathon spoke simply, "At the front. In the time of Arad when Jara'Copan came under siege, stood the Seven Gatekeepers of the Seven Gates of the Seven Hills. Now, in the time of Aemon, this is our gate, and we will lead you through."

There was a brief silence before the soldiers erupted in cheers. Even cynical Reimos was taken aback. _Maybe the generals aren't so bad._

Cathon raised a hand to quiet the Band. When silence fell again, Cathon raised his sword and pointed at Shayol Ghul, "That is our destination. We cross through Thakan'dar. That path is _Bekkar_, our Land's End, and through a Field of Blood. Tonight we will burn the Black Bastion down."

With that, he spun his horse and trotted forth down towards the valley. Four generals followed, and their trot became a gallop. The Band roared with a battle cry and trailed their leaders, a mass of red pouring down into Thakan'dar, melting into the veil of fog.

Reimos shouted as he raced down the incline, his gladius raised. He stepped into the shroud of Thakan'dar and stumbled. The fog was a choking blanket whose touch was cold, as cold as death could be imagined. It was a suffocating shield that threatened the sanity of any who entered. It was the fog of his nightmare.

He froze for a second, before the sight of the red-cloaked back of General Tryth caught his eyes. The fog almost seemed to be retreating away from the vicinity of the general, giving almost an aura of clarity around Tryth and his horse. With the general as Reimos' only land-mark, he began to move forward, following the blurred colors of the general. The other soldiers followed accordingly, spurred on by their commanders' lead.

Through the haze they slogged silently, discipline keeping fear at bay. Just as Reimos was beginning to wonder about the lack of resistance, the muffled drums of the Trolloc War began to permeate sporadically through Thakan'dar.

The muted sound of steel was Reimos' first warning. He almost crashed into a Trolloc in the fog, but recovered first and gutted the shadowspawn with a fast draw. The battle of Bekkar was on.

In the low visibility, squads stuck together hacking away at periodic resistance, and followed behind the generals leading the way. To Reimos, it seemed all so surreal. The Black Miasma did much in strangling any sound and one can only see the bare snatches of movement in the thick fog, giving it a substance of fantasy. It was like his nightmare, except this threatened his life, and the denizens of this place was true flesh and rending steel.

Zephyr Hawk Legion blew through the first wave of Shadowspawn like an avenging tempest. General Tryth never faltered in his drive and the Legion kept pace with him. The spearhead lead the way for the other legions, which tore through any survivors, blades flashing.

Reimos grew almost complacent, his attacks became mechanical. Slice, thrust. Slice, thrust. Slice, thrust. His eyes drew to its usual tunnel vision, and he allowed his body to take command.

A dark shape rose high through the fog in the distance. A _big_ shape. It rose sinuously to a towering height and more serpentine figures swelled up beside it.

General Tryth slowed, his horse struggled and rearing uncontrollably, and the men crawling to a halt beside.

Reimos approached cautiously, his swords raised at the ready. A brief eddy in the fog gave the Band of Red Hand a brief murky view of their new foe. They were massive worm-like creatures towering high up in the sky, breaking even through the roof of the fog. Reimos thought he could see the gleam of beady eyes and a shimmering something that looked too much like teeth. Down its side were rows of spikes, attached with chains that spilled down the side to the hands of a multitude of straining Trollocs. The handlers yanked and pulled at the chains, striving to keep the huge beasts in control. A force of chain and one of the creatures struck down at the advancing Band with its massive coils. Soldiers dived away as the creature's hide slammed down. Those who could not get out of their way were crushed under the massive bulk. Brief curving motions showed arrows showering the bulk, but they disappeared into the skin, doing no visible damage. More of those creatures began to strike, pounding heavily at the Band.

"JUMARA!" Tryth shouted, "Cut it to pieces!"

"Wow, it's that simple." Reimos leaped back as a massive coil slammed into the ground by him, shaking the earth. A strange whistling shrieked from somewhere in the fog, and Reimos groaned to himself, wondering what other creature was about to be unleashed upon them.

A dark shape curved above Reimos, and slammed into the ranks of the Jumara handlers.

"Good old Arcanum." Reimos muttered to himself. The path of the giant boulder had cleared a brief gap in the fog, showing the chaos in the Trolloc ranks. The boulder had buried around three squads of handlers, and severed many more chains. The Jumara had taken that opportunity to flex its body, and pulled away from its surviving slavers. It snapped the remnants of its chains, sending bodies flying through the air. Freed, it turned it attention to its tormentors, its coils slamming down upon the Trollocs amidst Band cheers.

"Follow my lead!" Reimos shouted, "This is our window of opportunity."

Reimos and his squad raced forward, as the renegade Jumara howled and struck at the Trollocs who were attempting to loop chains around it. Reimos ran at a crouch, hoping the fog would cover the relatively small movement of his squad. He approached the closest chained Jumara, his heart racing.

Reimos' squad burst upon the handlers, swords dealing out death with the occupied Trollocs. The guards were quickly dispatched, and the humans began to work on the handlers. Some of the muscled handlers let loose their chains to draw weapons, but that worked to Reimos' plan as well. The Jumara sensing its lax chains followed its struggling kin's lead, and pulled free.

Reimos waved his men off, as the Jumara struggled free, its bulk dealing massive damage against the closest creatures. The chains still attached to its skin became deadly whips, which could easily crack bones and smash skulls.

A boulder slammed into another Jumara. The creature, fueled by pain and fury, shivered off its chains and captors, and raged against any mortals within range. The struggles of the Jumaras snapped the chains from their enslaved kin, and soon the Trolloc advance lines was a slaughterhouse of shadowspawn, as massive coils slammed back and forth, as nearly all the monsters were liberated. Unfortunately, this slaughterhouse was also centered over Reimos' squad.

Reimos signaled frantically to his men as the Jumaras' insane thrashing pummeled the ground all around the sergeant and his squad. With the fog obscuring everything to shadows, a shadowy blur was the only warning for a giant coil slamming down. Such a blur flashed above Reimos' head, and he ducked for the ground. He felt the _woosh_ of a large coil passing over his head, and felt the ground buckle underneath him as the bulk made contact with the earth, slamming his chin into the ground. He tasted blood in his mouth where he had bit his tongue, but he shook off the pain.

He broke silence, shouting, "BACK! BACK TO OUR LINES NOW!"

A roar boomed high over his head and black shadows descended on the sergeant. He scrabbled to his feet and began to race in the general direction of the Band's line, then threw himself sideways as a black shadow appeared over him, and resolved into the flesh of a Jumara. It slammed into the earth, its fall pushing the fog away long enough for Reimos to glimpse deep red gashes scoring its skin. The Trollocs were attempting killing the out-of control Jumaras. The creature still had life in it, as it thrashed back and forth upon the ground, its chains flailing the ground.

Something hissed down at Reimos, who instinctively raised his arms to shield his face. Pain racked through his arms as something hard smashed into and coiled around his right arm. Time seemed to slow down as Reimos gazed at the black chain wrapped around his extended arm. Then the Jumara twitched away, the chain wrapped around his arm withdrew with powerful force.

Reimos felt the sudden jerk as he was yanked forward by his trapped arm for a second. But only for a second. Then he felt terrible pain. Fires consumed his arm, eating away at his entire body, chewing through every nerve.

He screamed, but the fog swallowed his voice.

For an instant, he felt all the pain in the world, liberating him from his body. He felt the pain of all the orphans in Manetheren. The pain of all the widows. The pain of the dead and dying that littered the Band's journey from the Mountain Home to the Land's End. The total pain of his life and suffering. The total pain of the war.

He could suffer no longer. The fire ate all that it could consume.

He welcomed the darkness.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	20. Honor, Valor, and Liberty

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty: Honor, Valor, and Liberty**

Diest Arcanum shielded his eyes with a hand, and called up towards the top of the trebuchet, "How's she holding up?"

"The hoists had been reinforced, General," Captain Nosi replied as he eased off the ladder that crept up the tall side of _Honor_, "I thought she was going to fold for a moment there."

In mid-throw, the giant trebuchet had snapped some of the rope supports nailed to the ground. The wooden structure had teetered on the edge of falling, threatening to crush everyone beneath and throwing off those who were perched upon it. It just managed to stabilize as the engineers managed to sever its load. The boulders had misfired, but thank the Creator and Caldazar, had plowed harmlessly away from Thunder legion. Nosi's corps had immediately sprang into action and seemed to have corrected the problem.

The other two Idylls were still firing away, boulders arching across Thakan'dar, just ahead of the Band's position. Arcanum could not see any aspects of the battles of Bekkar, due to the Black Miasma, and had to rely blindly on messengers to relay the positions of the men, one of whom was now arriving.

The messenger skirted the perimeter lines and halted upon seeing the general.

"What of those creatures, the _Jumara_?" Arcanum called.

"Your volley did much damage, as did the courage and astuteness of many soldiers." The messenger took a deep drink from his canteen and wiped the sweat form his face, "They have turned against their owners, and we have broken their lines. The first van is about two leagues forward, the flanking vans right behind. The Marshall-General estimates we will recover for that delay. The first wave of the wounded will arrive here soon. Cathon asks that the Gates of Night be down by the time the first van wipes its feet on the doormat."

"You will have your opening." Arcanum waved for a remount.

An attendant quickly arrived with a fresh horse for the messenger and led off the exhausted steed. The messenger gave a salute to Arcanum and galloped back down into Thakan'dar, immediately swallowed up by the fog.

"HIT THE GATES WITH ALL YOU HAVE!" Arcanum shouted. He was answered by _Valor_ who sent her missiles curving towards the black fortress. Arcanum squinted at its progress, then pulled out his new watch-glass, recently fashioned by Nosi. He peered through and nodded agreeably.

The boulders smashed into the high arched gate, which Arcanum presumed to be the entrance. They crumbled upon collision with the foreboding iron, spraying the ground with a shower of rocks. An explosion of sound announced _Liberty_'s shot which slammed into a black tower some distances above the gates. The black stone yielded to the barrage, and the tower crumpled down, leaving an angry wound. The hit seemed to have stirred up clouds of dust that seemed to hang in the air.

And still hang in the air. And appeared to be growing larger. A black cloud approached the hill where the Idylls approached, thick with fluttering black creatures.

"Ravens!" Arcanum realized, "Entire flocks of them!"

Arcanum was quite familiar with the sight of the scavengers, for the aftermath of a battlefield was completely infested with the black birds. But, he had never seen as many as the ones approaching now. There had to be millions upon millions.

"Nosi! Are there any more reserve naph or even pitch?"

"Last drops burned away at Burning Rivers. How many birds are we talking about?" Nosi exclaimed.

"Enough to coat the sun with black vengeance." Arcanum knew the damage a flock of shadoweye this large could do. Sharp beaks that could pluck out eyeballs and draw skin and flesh from the bones.

"Should we maintain our positions?" Nosi asked, studying the approaching cloud objectively.

"Get your men off the Idylls. They'll be helpless targets up there." Arcanum began bellowing, "ALL ARCHERS FORM FRONT. NOW!"

"We have some visored helmet in armory, perhaps enough for this legion." Nosi noted.

"Get them," Arcanum replied. Archers raced forward from their perimeter positions, crouching at the front of the Idylls. The earth shook as the engineers on _Liberty_ unhitched its load, dropping the boulders down below. Men began to scurry down the massive trebuchets as fast as they could.

Arcanum moved toward the archery lines. He was flanked by a squad of Arbalest-bearing guards, or Arbies, as the men had taken to calling it. But the Arbie bolts would not fare well against the small, agile shadoweyes, and would only prove cumbersome. Yet, with the ravens bunched so close, it would be nearly impossible to miss. As the general studied the lines, he knew that there were not enough archers to keep the flocks at bay. He doubted all the archers in the Covenant could even dent that black cloud. He had only placed footmen and archers in Thunder Legion as an afterthought, just enough to protect his precious siege engines. The legion will pay for that oversight now.

Arcanum brought his steel visor down, leaving a slit of visibility. He hated having his vision hindered, but he would probably hate having his eyeball torn out even more. Spare helmets found their ways through the ranks, and the soldiers quickly donned them, as the thick cloud of shadoweyes descended.

The ravens blocked out the sun, casting a black shadow over the soldiers. Arrows took flight and bodies tumbled downwards. Then the ravens dove, and everything dissolved into chaos. Arcanum drew his sword as the world around him descended into sharp beaks and fluttering wings. He sliced at his attackers, but they surrounded him, attaching to his arms and torsos with sharp talons. Beaks drew blood, snapping at any exposed skin. As Arcanum flailed blindly at his assailants, he ruefully reflected that perhaps the visor didn't hinder his vision, since they were truly nothing to see but blackness. Then he felt more than saw the hesitations of the ravens, which after their initial strike, began to avoid Arcanum, fluttering away and colliding with their brethrens. Arcanum clutched the Shell hanging from his neck, thrusting it out and the ravens shrieked away as if it was a blinding torch.

His steel breastplate and hard leather absorbed most of the meager shadoweyes' strikes, but he knew the lightly-armored archers would not be lucky. He could feel resistance to his sword sporadically as swung, hewing through wings and hollow-boned bodies. But, he could see nothing and hear nothing, as the air was saturated with the piercing calls of the shadoweyes.

Then a sudden rise in heat drew beads of sweat on Arcanum's face. A bright flash scoured the air, and the air was filled with burning feathers. Hot objects struck Arcanum from above, and he realized they were the still burning corpses of the ravens. When he felt no more attacks by sharp beaks, Arcanum raised his visor and gazed around amazedly.

The ground was littered with layers upon layers of charred avian corpses, emanating a sour-burnt stench that filled the generals' nostrils. The soldiers were also gazing at the ground in surprise, then glancing at their arms, blood streaming down from their wounds and slashes. Corpses of men also laid sporadically, so mutilated that Arcanum felt his gorge rising. A body nearby belonged to someone who had not received a helmet, and needless to say, much of his face was stripped of flesh, exposing the macabre grin of the skull.

The surviving ravens fluttered above, confused and dazed, still enough to blanket the sun. Then they found renewed courage, believing the worst was over, and the creatures shrieked back down. Fire flayed up and burning feathers drifted down.

Arcanum looked to the source of the flames, to see the outstretched hand of Airene. Then she gasped and crumpled. Warder flowed forward, and caught the sagging Aes Sedai in his arms. Arcanum raced forward, burnt corpses crunching underneath his steps. Her face was pale, and her small frame spasmed slightly, but her eyes were open and seeing.

"The pain..." She murmured, "Backlash..."

Warder silently lifted her into his arms and raised his visored head to Arcanum, "She will be unable to fight today."

A helmeted soldier with the band of a healer studied her ashen face, "She is in shock. She will need rest."

"Take good care of her, Warder. She saved all our bloody lives today." Arcanum said. The Warder nodded slowly and removed a jade figurine from Airene's slack fingers. Then he turned towards her tent.

"We will set the healing stations here." The medic removed his dented helmet and tossed it to the ground. The wounded soldiers began to pour in, either limping with the aid of comrades or carried in on make-shift stretchers.

"Amazing, how such tiny creatures can do such great harm." Nosi remarked, staring down at his own helmet, which showed dents and even factures from the assault. His left arm was completely bound by bandages, which already were stained by blood. A dark red wound graced near his nose from a lucky peck through the visor, barely an inch away from his left eye.

"Can your men return to duty?" Arcanum glanced down at his own arm. The Shell had protected him from grievous wounds. But much of his hard leather was pitted with holes, and he could feel stings of thousands of lacerations on his arms and legs. He could feel a dull pain in his left hand and had difficulty moving his fingers. A raven must have severed a tendon.

"They have already returned." Nosi replied, and his words were punctuated by the _CRACK_ of _Valor_'s counter-balance slamming down, sending its load forward.

"It is bloody lucky that the Aes Sedai stayed with us instead of joining the main force." Arcanum pulled out his watch-glass to follow the missile's progress. The glass was broken.

After waiting for Arcanum to finish his curses, Nosi replied, "Yes, but it seems that even this close to the Dark Lord's domain, she cannot use the One Power without terrible pain. And with her out of commission, we will be unable to withstand another attack like that."

"Then we'd better pray that's the last of them. Or else we will be forced to set an Idyll on fire."

_CRACK!_

"General!" A soldier called out, drawing Arcanum's attention.

A man, who would be right age for Arcanum's son if he had had one, approached, carrying an unconscious form in his arms.

"We found this soldier near the southern perimeter. His horse was dead of exhaustion. And I suspect he's falling to the same fate. He's been calling for the general." The soldier explained, setting his burden gently on the ground.

"Bring water." Arcanum kneeled beside the prostate figure. The soldier nodded and ran off.

Arcanum brushed aside the long dark tresses that covered the face, and saw the mixture of dried blood and sweat carving rivers through the caked dirt. Blood also stained much of the soldier's black-red cloak, not a cloak of the Band of Red Hand. The uniform was frayed, but Arcanum immediately recognized it. The dark red cloak and armor, an accoutrement he had not seen in a very long time. He startled, and then studied the face.

_CRACK!_

The soldier returned with a filled canteen. Arcanum took the leather skin and slowly dribbled water into the slack and cracked mouth.

"Is it...?" Nosi leaned over, his eyes opening in recognition.

"Yes, our friend here is a she. A Heart Guard. Aemon's personal guardians." Arcanum agreed. The woman coughed, and her eyes fluttered open slowly.

"My squad…last of my squad." The woman did not see the soldiers leaning over her, her clear blue eyes staring at the sky, "Manetheren. Manetheren calls…"

She raised one arm, reaching for a leather-pack she wore on her belt. Her bare sun-scorched hand wavered, then fell. Her eyes saw nothing. Not even the sky.

Arcanum gently closed her eyes with two gentle fingers and poured the rest of the water on her face, washing clear the blood and sweat of her last journey for her King. It was a pretty face, but a worn face. He slowly opened the pouch and pulled out a single sheath of paper, crumpled and spotted with blood. He stood up, and the soldier who had brought her covered her body with the silver-edged cloak of the Heart Guard.

_CRACK!_

"Blood of Manetheren forever. May Caldazar carry you on its back to the Land of your fathers. Land of Arad. You have done your duty for the Waters of the Mountain Home. Return in peace. _Aetern._" Arcanum whispered.

_CRACK!_

Then a roaring cheer came from the soldiers by the Three Idyll. And Arcanum knew. The Gates of Night had fallen to the onslaught of _Honor_, _Valor_, and _Liberty_. The way was open for the Band of Red Hand. The destruction of the Fortress of Shayol Ghul was nigh.

Arcanum stood, silent and brooding. He studied the paper slowly. He read it twice. He glanced at the seal of the Red Eagle. The signature. The crest. Yes, it was genuine. He felt both numbness and pain flowing through his body, as if a hand had encircled his heart and squeezed.

"General, the hinges of the Gates has been knocked free, and the corrupted iron now hangs wide! What are your orders?" A voice called from the direction of the Trebuchets.

Arcanum closed his eyes and ignored the question. Finally, he turned to the young soldier who stood reverie over the Heart Guard, "Get all of our messengers. Call back Cathon and all the rest. Tell them to return now."

"Sir?"

"You will tell them that Manetheren is under attack."

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	21. Judgement Siege

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-One: Judgment Siege**

"FORWARD!" Cathon called, his sword flashing red against the throat of a surprised Trolloc. The beast pitched backward, trampled under Cathon's black steed. The soldiers had hit a line of solid resistance, but with enough hammering the Band would soon smash through. Nothing mattered, for the Gates of Night had fallen.

The Black Miasma shrouded the battle, muffling the howls of rage and the screams of pain. It was ethereal, the lives of men and beasts dying in near silence, strangled by a silent fog. It was a cold battle, where the heat of blood and sweat were robbed of their heat immediately upon touching the air. It occurred to Cathon that it was not an entirely healthy experience for anyone to be in this mist.

But yet, the fog shied away from the general, occasional tendrils probing but withdrawing as if stunned. An aura of clear air surrounded him, and contrasting with the translucent mist, made him glow in brightness. Naturally, that drew both friendly soldiers rallying to his blade and shadow fiends drawn inexorably to the lodestone.

A ghastly face lunged out of the shadows, but Cathon smoothly shifted his blade back and scored a mortal blow between the Trolloc's plate armor. He withdrew his sword with the soft hissing of acidic blood boiling on the metal.

Then the shadows ahead coalesced into another shadow, a shadow that stalked with the suppleness of a hooded viper. A creature Cathon had fought and killed many a times, but one who he will never underestimate.

The Myrddraal flowed forward, black sword already stained with the life of mortals. Another shadow detached from the mist besides the dark rider, a second one.

Trollocs and soldiers clashed beside, but there were only three: Cathon and the two Myrddraal.

In silence they met, and in silence, swords flashed in a macabre dance. Cathon engaged with the training of a First Lord of Manetheren, considered by some to be as good as a blademaster, but with others sneered off as aristocratic caprice. However, he soon found himself barely surviving as the two fades struck with perfect synchronization.

Back and back, Cathon was pressed, warding off blows that were too quick to be seen by mundane eyes, but which could rend immediately through a soul's mortal coil. Hard hits rained down upon the forge-hardened Manetheren steel, spinning dully through the murk. No existing man could match a fade in strength since the death of the giant-race, nor match the cursed luck of their dark Master. At least not by himself. For Cathon remembered that he did not fight alone, for Caldazar flew with him.

Renewed strength flooded his veins, and his sword arched out, meeting hard resistance for a bare moment. Then his sword touched air once more, and the head of the Fade toppled to the ground.

Then the general's war-beast keened and crumbled. The other Fade had struck even as his kin died in silence, his poisoned sword slicing through sinew and jugular, bringing the horse to its end.

Cathon hit the ground hard, his sword skidding across the hard ground, kicking up sparks and disappearing into the fog. Pain shot up his legs as the heavy weight of his horse landed hard upon him, pinning him fast.

The shadowspawn dismounted slowly and approached to the trapped general. Cathon tried to call out, but his voice was stolen by the fall. He glanced up at the eyeless face peering down, and he felt the tremors of fear encroaching upon his mind.

"I will enjoy this." The fade twisted its mouth into a semblance of a sneer, "You have been quite a nuisance, General Lawe Cathon, First Lord of Annoyance."

A black gauntlet dropped to the ground besides Cathon, and a pale hand wrapped tight around the man's throat, tightening in an impossible steel vice. Cathon grasped the fade's arm, but the muscles were taut as iron and as unyielding. Black dots began to infuse his vision as the grip slowly closed.

_Caldazar!_ Cathon attempted to cry, _I call upon your aid. Caldazar!_

Cathon felt his strength leaving him and his visions fading into nothing. The crusade was lost. Lost to him.

A familiar shriek sounded somewhere in the mists of his mind. The call of an eagle that carried the heart of Manetheren in its breast.

_For the last defense of Manetheren._ Cathon grasped the dangling Shell of Caldazar and slammed it into the flesh of the Fade.

The result was immediate. The hand jerked from his throat and the Fade drew back, falling to the ground, his scream swallowed by Thakan'dar. He crawled away towards his horse, but he would never make it, for the wound was fatal.

Cathon coughed, drawing in deep breaths, but his visions were still darkened with spots. Fire burnt his lungs and raced up his throat. His head was still dazed from near-death, and he could not grasp conscious thought until brief moments later. He could only lie there in the cold mist, breathing heavily into the fog. The smell of burning oil emanated from his medallion, and the entire front was scored char black. But ever slowly, the black steamed away in a noxious cloud, leaving the Shell with its original brilliance.

He braced his arms against the hard rock and tried to pull himself out, but the horse was too heavy and his strength was still weak. He could still feel his legs, which he took as a good sign, and gave thanks to Caldazar once more, but that was the end of his luck. He was trapped somewhere in the battlefield and he could not count upon the arrogance of a next passing shadowspawn.

"General! General Cathon is that you!" A muffled but distinctively human voice called through the fog.

"Over here!" Cathon shouted.

A man took shape in the fog, almost stumbling over the general. Seeing the general's predicament, he quickly braced his shoulder against the horse's corpse, strained, and heaved it up just enough for Cathon to pull himself from underneath.

"Are you alright, sir?" The soldier asked.

"Yes, thank you," Cathon dusted off his cloak and stumbled to his feet. There was a stabbing pain in his legs, but slowly dulled to a gentle ache. "How goes the battle, man?"

"We've...we've broken through the last lines. But, sir..."

"All the vans?"

"Yes, sir. But I bear a message from General Arcanum. It is imperative that you return to camp. To headquarters." The man relayed.

"What is--"

"Cathon!" Murky figures appeared, coalescing into the figures of Diest Arcanum and the rest of the generals, with a detachment of dirt and blood-stained guards.

"Arcanum, what is this? Should you not be manning the Idylls?" Cathon questioned, his brows raised in alarm.

"I think it is best if I told you in person." Arcanum spoke softly. The entire command staff stood beside him, grim.

"What has happened?" Cathon grew alarmed.

Arcanum tossed a piece of paper, yellowed and stained, to Cathon. The Marshall-General's hand touched the broken seal of the royal signet, and then unfurled the paper with an unsteady hand.

_To the Marshall-General of the Grand Army of Manetheren, _

_Manetheren is now under assault by a massive Trolloc Horde, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, and led by many Dark Generals. We are in a dire circumstance and extreme peril. By order of the Hierarchy of Manetheren, the Grand Army of Manetheren is called back to serve the Mountain Home in its defense. _

_King Aemon al Caar al Thorin, Warden of the Mountain Hall, Keeper of the Shells of Caldazar _

Cathon looked up then began to slowly read the message again, a message that had just destroyed the hopes of the Covenant, a message that held his heart in a grip stronger than the Fade's.

"We must return." Arcanum growled softly.

"We have come too far to go back." Cathon kept his voice steady, "We have broken through their remaining lines. We can end it here now. Listen to me, Diest."

"It is Manetheren, Cathon! Not Mafal Dadaranell, MANETHEREN!" Arcanum's eyes hardened.

"Give me one day and one night. One day and one night. To end the war here, and march back home with something to show."

"One day more? One day more that the Horde camps upon our land. Killing our people. Burning our fields. Poisoning our homes. Do you think we would still have a home? We head back now, Lawe."

"Is this mutiny then?" Cathon said wearily.

"By right of The Code, we can overrule your decisions or remove you from your position. You know this." Arcanum lowered his voice. The Code had never been called into action in the history of the Band of Red Hand.

"Is it so? Even you, Bastion?"

"We have a duty to hold for our country, a duty above all else." Vader replied.

"Is it unanimous then?" Cathon sighed, and found he had difficulty breathing. He realized how tired he truly was. His entire body ached and his soul was weary.

Slowly each general nodded: Diest Arcanum, Stren Vader, Drogan Tryth and finally Seth Notar. Only Jot Diadrem was missing. But it mattered not, for the affair was decided.

"Yield, Lawe Cathon. The men are recalled. We return to Manetheren." Arcanum pronounced softly.

"And I thus submit to the Circle of Judgment." Cathon met the hard gazes of the generals, but his words were not tinged with bitterness, though he certainly felt it. All this...all this for nothing. To take the easy road was to turn the bloody job to someone else, but Cathon could not back away from his responsibilities. It was not in his blood, for the only thing that could tear him away would be Death himself. He continued, "But I ask that I remain Marshall General, and I will lead the Band home."

There was a pause.

"So be it." Arcanum turned and melted away into the fog. Each general nodded their consent.

They departed into the Black Miasma, but Lawe Cathon placed a hand on the shoulders of Vader.

"I did what I thought was right, Lawe." The leader of First Legion turned around, his eyes troubled, "It is our obligation."

"I understand, but why was Diadrem not here to add the finishing nail?"

Vader looked at Cathon for a moment, then said "Jot Diadrem was killed in the first wave. Accidentally shot in the back by an archer. One of ours. Luck did not favor him this day. The course of the war, is it not? But come, general, we must withdraw, lest a similar fate befall us."

Cathon was not shaken by the demise of Diadrem. The long years of war had left him desensitized to death, the old acquaintance that rides the horse of Luck. _Jot Diadrem was a good man, the youngest of them all, and perhaps the most proud. He refused the Shell of Caldazar, but he died by his principle and honor. Death with honor, and thus discharged with all obligations. What other fate could a faithful son ask for? Indeed, duty is heavier than a mountain, and death lighter than a feather. I look forward to that day when my burden can be lifted. But until then, I must bear its weight._

Marshall-General Lawe Cathon walked away from Shayol Ghul and never looked back.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	22. The Butcher's Bill

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The Butcher's Bill**

Stef Reimos groaned, feeling a dull pain echo deep within his head. He blinked against the sharp lines stabbing into his eyes, but could not find a clear vision. He tried to sit up, but found that his left hand did not seem to want to respond. Nausea racked his stomach and his vision dissolved into dark splotches.

"What's bloody wrong with me?" Stef muttered and brought up his left arm and squinted with a bleary eye. It was a bandaged stump, stopping just before the elbow, bound in a thick gauze, stained dark with dried blood.

Then the memories rushed in.

The earth shuddering as the Jumara thrashed in a crazed throe. A flash of light in the fog. The chain wrapped around his upraised arm. The crack of bones breaking. And as the Jumara struggled, it snapped away its chain with deadly force. Then pain. And only pain.

Stef cursed softly, mesmerized by the sight of his arm—or what was left of it. He could almost feel his fingers still...if he wanted to, he could move them, but they escaped his grasp. A lot of things escaped his grasp now. Then he could no longer maintain focus, as the world begins to spin around him.

"That's a pretty wound. The name's Danel Sevor, 126th Longbow under Ombrage Flargen." A soldier lying next to him said. Stef cracked a weary eye to view the soldier who had a blood-stained bandage wrapped around the top of his head.

"Stef Reimos, 50th Light Infantry." The sergeant murmured, still in mute shock.

"You alright? You lost a lot of blood there. The medic didn't think you were going to make it. But the guy that dragged you here was pretty insistent."

Stef turned his head to study the mess of the field hospital. There were no cot or blanket for the injured to lie on--just the soldiers' own cloaks spread over the dirt. The occasional field medics dashed around, and the smell of death and disinfectant was strong, almost overpowering. If it wasn't for the abnormally dry weather in the Blasted Lands, more than half would succumb to lethal infections. Stef then felt the devastating effects of months of hard march, sleep deprivation, undernourishment, and the heavy blood loss.

"I don't...Danel, how goes the battle?" Stef managed to say before lying back down, his head swimming.

"Wish I knew myself. Got taken out during the final wave. But they were some battles we had. I hear you were the ones who got us through those giant worms? I don't know what we would've done if you guys hadn't freed those Jumaras like you did. Probably die horribly.

"It was all confusion after we cracked through. But then, that was the last of the organized resistance, so it was just a matter of hacking through the faces that appeared in the fog. Those beasts were as lost and confused as we were in that soup. But when we came in sight of the wall, a Dreadlord leading a fist intercepted us. They caught us by surprise and nearly ended our march right then and there. But a knot of cavalry reinforcement stumbled on us then too and we quickly turned the tide.

"Then, I swear my heart almost stopped when I saw the Dreadlord raising an arm towards us, and most of us flinched back. I would never forget that image, for I knew that was the last sight I'd probably see. But, it was the oddest sight I've ever been a part to. The fire that left his fingers burned back and consumed his arm and pretty soon his entire body. We left his charred and twitching corpse smoking on the ground, and reached the broken gates.

"Then the next thing I knew, a sharp pain stabbed down on my head, and I woke up here..." Danel droned on.

Stef soon closed his eyes, drowning out the voices, the screams, and the din. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to glance into his father's eyes.

"Stef, I heard you were here." Jorj Reimos kneeled beside his son.

"Da, why aren't you fighting...are you injured?"

"The battle's over." Jorj replied softly.

"Then...?" Stef struggled to remember what it meant.

"We have been recalled. Homeward bound."

"We were at the Gates. Why?" The last words trailed off in bitterness.

"As we have struck at the heart of the Shadow, have they struck at the heart of the Band. I have heard that the generals acknowledge Manetheren's siege."

"Is this what we are left with? To leave with nothing? I gave my arm for...for nothing?"

"Stef, know that I am as proud of your courage as I am saddened by your sacrifice. But this is a case where my allegiance lies with the Generals. To continue here means perhaps the destruction of the Shadow threat, but it will also mean the destruction of the Mountain Home. The path leads onto mutual annihilation. That is not a path that we take. Call it patriotism, call it nationalism, or call it jingoism. It is the foundation of our beliefs. Certainly, in the annals of history, this might possibly be marked down as the greatest folly of Mankind, if it is not forgotten completely in the dust of time.

"I know that I will never convince you. But without trying, we lose the one thing we have fought for and will continue to fight for. Winning a war does not mean to have killed the enemy. Winning a war means to win the objective. Our objective is the preservation of our home. If we have destroyed the enemy and lost our goal, then we have lost."

Stef listened to this silently; a dull feeling ached in his chest. He could not tell whether it was resentment, sadness, or acceptance. But it was a cold sensation, and it left him exhausted.

Jorj Reimos sighed, his eyes glistening. Then he removed a ring from the thong around his neck and placed it in Stef's hands.

"Here is the ring back, the ring of your mother. It has given me closure, but I think that you will need it more. To remember what you are fighting for." Jorj stood up and saluted, "For the Band of the Red Hand."

Stef felt the cool silver ring in his hands and finally closed it tightly in a fist. He heard his father leaving, heard the light snoring of the nearby Danel Sevor, 126th Longbow under Ombrage Flargen. He heard the soft patter of wearied feet and the wind whistling over the rocks.

He slept like a man wearied of life.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	23. Walking Oblivion

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Walking Oblivion**

"Burn it down. All of it." Arcanum barked to the engineer, "I'd rather die before I let the Trollocs claim them as their own."

"Aye sir." The engineer saluted and raised a hand up in signal.

Arcanum gazed up at the Three Idylls, now stripped and barren but of their old skeleton. _The weapon that broke the Gates of Night and shattered the walls of Shayol Ghul_. Arcanum watched grimly as the soldiers tossed their oil-soaked torches onto the wooden frame, bathing the giants in flickering flames. They chewed up through their heights, until the three trebuchets were consumed in a towering inferno.

Arcanum smelled the heavy wood smoke mixing with the smoke of the burning corpses that lined the fields and gave a sad shake of his bushy head. _Valor_ broke first, tumbling down into hot ruins. _Liberty_ soon followed, leaving _Honor_ standing alone, before it too followed its sisters into the ashes of death.

"General, sir. Thunder Legion has finished preparing for departure." Captain Blake saluted, his eyes following the descent of the last joist of _Honor_.

"Then we will leave this cursed place and dear hope that we are not too late."

"It is my duty to inform you that there has been some trouble with looting among the ranks."

"Looting?" Arcanum scratched his beard, "Trollocs have nothing worth to loot. Unless you speak of looting our own slain."

"No, sir. There have been glittering items reported on the bodies of the Shadowspawns. Fights have even begun to break out." Blake spat on the ground.

Arcanum felt shivers creep up his spine. There was something he should remember...something he should know. It was important; fragments of thought echoed in his mind, but he could not pull comprehension together. He was interrupted from his reverie by an aide saluting on arrival.

"Sir, perimeter is reporting that...I do not know how to put this, that the Black Miasma is moving." The soldier cleared his throat nervously and tugged at his ear.

"Moving?" Arcanum felt his skin prickling and itching, as if ants were crawling across his scalp.

"It's expanding, sir. At Zephyr Hawk--that is the closest camp to _Thakan'dar_--the fog has already reached knee high. And still rising."

"Something's happening. Something dire and unprepared for," Arcanum turned slowly to gaze up at the tall visage of Shayol Ghul. The spire must have jogged his thought, because he finally found the words he was looking for, "the Horatica Horrors." The fairy story had chilled Arcanum to the bone as a child, and it still chilled him as an adult when he found out the Horrors had in fact happened. When it was finally ended, fifty villages of infected men, women, and children had to be razed to the ground, along with two companies of soldiers that had brought it to them.

Knowing he had to make a decision—the right decision--and make it fast, Arcanum turned back to Blake, "All soldiers seen looting from the corpses of Trollocs must and will be hung, and their bodies burnt until nothing of the flesh remains. Any looted items will be burned in the hottest fire and buried deep, take care to never make physical touch. If Cathon has problems with this order, he can take it up with me. The latter business I will take up with the Marshal General myself. Have you seen Cathon?"

"I am right here, Diest," Cathon announced himself, glancing casually at the burnt skeleton of Honor. Trailing behind him was the dark-haired Airene, who seem to have recovered from her earlier ordeal, and the ghost Warder.

"We must leave now. Most of the preparations for departure have been finished. Anything that is not will be left behind." Arcanum pronounced. There seem to be an awkwardness between the two generals since the fateful meeting in Thakan'dar, but neither man seemed willing to recognize it.

"It is nearly night and the journey will be hazardous."

"You must aware that _Thakan'dar_ is moving to consume the camps, and I suspect this entire siege was a bullied lamb to lead us to our doom."

"I agree that we must leave now. The essence of our momentum has been lost and He recovers and prepares its strike back. We must leave, indeed. Or not leave at all."

"And do you agree that your plan was in folly?"

Cathon met Arcanum's gaze with steady eyes, "By now, the walls of Shayol Ghul would have been tumbled into its tomb, and its denizens laid to their unholy demises. But I will not banter with you of what could have been. We will leave. I have already given the general command. And I will finish by saying that I agree with your decisions regarding looters. Nothing must be taken from the soil of _Thakan'dar_, nothing that glitters, nothing gold, unless we want a repeat of Horatica."

"Then let us cease this argument. I cannot wait to leave."

"One more thing." Cathon spoke over the noise of soldiers moving into march formations, "Airene tells me of a means to hurry our journey home."

Airene returned Arcanum's skeptical glance with an unflinching gaze, "Yes, I know of a shortcut--if one can say such of it. I make no promises but this cannot hurt, as it seems that with the months—if not years--required for a hard march to reach Manetheren, whatever will happen will have happened anyways."

"And what is this _shortcut_?" Arcanum grumbled impatiently, his eyes studying his Legion's final movements.

"The Ways." Airene pronounced her answer solemnly as if it was of large merit.

"Would you like to explain, Aes Sedai, or perhaps you would like to continue throwing out ambiguous and meaningless words. If the latter, I have my legion to attend to." Arcanum turned to leave, but was stopped by Airene who stayed his shoulder with a surprisingly powerful grip.

Her green irises pierced deep into Arcanum's eyes, "During the Breaking when the Male Channelers were crazed by the taint of the Dark One's counterstrike, a few of these men took shelter in Ogier Steddings, whose properties allowed them to live relatively taint-free. And in payment, they took the mythical Talisman of Growing and created Waygates at the perimeter of many Steddings. The Ways connected each of these Gates, forming a world above, below, within, and without this World we live in. Time is different in the Ways, bent and distorted, and so is distance. The Ogiers have used these passages since the Breaking to travel between steddings, to make a journey of a day from what once was a trek of a month."

"I hardly think this is the time for folk tales and legends."

"_I_ have traveled in the Ways, General. It does indeed exist, a treasured heirloom kept by the Ogier, but the privilege given out to a select few. Aes Sedai are always welcome and respected, and I can navigate the Ways quite readily."

"Assuming for the moment that you are correct, Aes Sedai, which I will acquiesce to you. If a Waygate exists at every Stedding, then we have an exit at Madan or even Yandar, but we are in the middle of the Blasted Lands. How far must we travel to reach a supposed entrance?"

"If my memory serves me correctly, then Sherandu--one of the rare bastions left in the Blight--is forty leagues due south of us, and the Ogier Council will no doubt allow the Band passage through their Waygate if they are appraised of the quandary you and Manetheren are in."

"I hope you are correct, Aes Sedai." Arcanum grudgingly accepted the wisdom in Airene's words. If it works, then they might reach Manetheren in time. If it didn't, many will suffer.

"We set hard march to Sherandu, Diest," Cathon finally spoke, and motioning to two soldiers leading horses, "Mount quickly and ride with me. I fear we might be too late in our trek."

Arcanum noticed then the fog carpeting the ground, creeping and billowing from its source. He nodded grimly and leaped up the side of the offered gelding. He quickly followed behind Cathon, riding towards the head of the soldiers.

The Band of Red Hand reacted quickly, as each soldier was spurred into action, perhaps impelled by some personal demons or the encroaching fog. Airene rode before the generals, her eyes staring oddly out into the distance. Warder jogged his steed heavily by her side, scanning the horizons of the wasteland.

Yet as they journeyed farther from the spire of Shayol Ghul, they could not leave the fog behind. To the contrary, the fog increased in height and thickness, its progress almost imperceptible, but its result readily apparent. Soon, the fog rose as high over their heads as it had in _Thakan'dar_, and visibility was reduced to almost nothing.

The men had walked in brooding silence, but now mutters and whispers cascaded through the ranks like a worm chewing through the Band's collective mettle. There was a tangible hesitation and fear creeping into the blinded troops, as if soaked into the skin from the cold dead wall that surrounded them.

Arcanum rubbed his Shell of Caldazar uneasily, glad to some extent of its partial protection against the fog. Like a wild but intelligent animal, the fog avoided all wearers of the Shell, creating a small aura of clarity. Not afforded with such protection, Airene had to deal with the fog in her own way, first with a shimmering ball of light that floated gently before her to illuminate her path. But soon even that became useless as the fog appeared to thicken and darken. Cathon had offered her the Shell of the late Jot Diadrem, which she refused at first, but eventually relented in the face of the fog's darkness, receiving it as if it was a slimy and repulsing toad from the look on her face.

And the Band tramped on in growing restlessness, through an endless haze to an unknown destination. Then the noises begin.

Arcanum dismissed them at first, as the shifting and creaking of saddles, or the distorted muffles of palaver, or even the howl of wind over the many cracks in the ground. But it grew incessant and louder, grating on his nerves like an itch that cannot be scratched.

"It sounds like singing." Arcanum remarked, to quiet his own nerves. The generals were riding almost touching horses, in order to be able to see each other.

"Whispering." Vader added, patting the tense neck of his horse.

"Should we send scouts out?"

"No." Cathon immediately answered, "I have no doubts that any man who leaves the press of his fellow soldiers will never be found again. If something is out there, there is nothing we can do but wait. Patiently or otherwise."

"We are within a half day's march within Sherandu." Airene reined her horse closer, "Once we reach the safety of the stedding, we should be safe from anything that hails from the Blasted Lands. Though I do confess that this fog is greatly disorienting me."

"Then I pray that you lead us out with all the powers at your disposals. Or I fear that we may be trapped inside this fog forever." Cathon glanced at the fog, as if studying something afar.

That same fear was paramount on every mind of every soldier. That the Band was traveling in circles or frozen in a massive spell to wander through the white nothingness for eternity. Or once they have left, they will discover the world has changed, that all have been lost. These apprehensions gnawed away as the men marched. The days and nights were drowned away in the same murky sea of white, punctuated only by meals until the food stores ran out on the second day. There was no time to sleep or rest, just a sheer desperation propelling them forward.

Arcanum felt that wild desperation stirring inside him as well. He could not tell how long they had been on the march to Airene's Waygate, but it felt to him that he had almost forgotten life beyond the fog. He heard the voices in the fog, and had even begun to see faces not a couple days ago. And the damned fog stayed. It made no sense. But it stayed. Arcanum could take pain, but not this...this numbness. Arcanum would not be surprised if this was what death was like. Have they died? There were always tales of the haunted battlefields where the ghosts of the slain walk and relive their battles from dusk to dawn, not realizing that they had passed away. Have their own mortal flames been snuffed, and now they are forced to shuffle the plains of afterlife as wraiths and ghosts?

The blade laid over his pommel felt real, but even the sheen of its folded Manetheren steel was dull in this land, as if the flicker of life was sucked away. Arcanum felt the reassuring hilt of his sword as he gazed out into the nether world of the fog. There was not a single sheathed sword in the Band. A weapon in hand gave the men some power, especially in circumstances where they were completely powerless. For the weary men, the sword was their insurance. For men have disappeared. Some fleeing into the fog, their mind finally cracking, while others simply vanished in midstride and mid-conversation. And then there were the drum beats in the distance. Some could hear it, others could not. Arcanum cocked his head to listen but only heard the soft whispers that had plagued them from Thakan'dar.

Then the fog was gone.

Arcanum flinched from the harsh light of the sun and spun his horse around. They stood upon a field of blackened and rotting land. He felt a faint tingle on his skin, but he may have imagined it. But there were no fog here, only ruin and decay. Behind them was a wall of wispy smog and men stumbling into the light, blinking up at the sky. Some shouted and clasped each other in subdued glee. Others simply collapsed bonelessly on the ground.

"This is not right." Airene leaped off her mare and kneeled on the ground, "This should be Sherandu. And...it _is_ Sherandu. But there's nothing here but death and decay."

"The Dark One is patient and his touch far-reaching. No fortress will hold out against him for long." Arcanum dismounted and touched the swampy ground with a cautious gauntlet, "Nothing left here. Let us find the Waygate and go."

"Yes, I suppose. It is...it is just such a shock. I was only here perhaps ten years past, and I can still remember the sphere of beauty inside the ravages of the Blasted Land. Perhaps it was just a silly sop-girl's wish to finally escape the ravages of war, if only for a few hours." Airene shook her head slightly, "But, I prattle on meaninglessly, when we should be departing. I can still recognize the land, and we are not far from the Waygate. But we must leave the limited protection of the Stedding and that means entering the fog once more."

"The fog is retreating." General Tryth suddenly interjected, pointing at where they had entered the Stedding.

Indeed, before their eyes, the fog that had plagued them for leagues pulled away, shrinking into the distance. But then, the fog was the least of their worries.

Down the vast barren land stood ranks upon ranks of Trollocs and Shadow Spawn, stretching far across the landscape, waiting just outside the unseen boundary. Their numbers were thick and their blackened blades were like branches in an ominous forest.

"Arms! To arms!" The recently celebrating men drew their swords once more, blinking their weakened eyes, and rocking on their unsteady feet, as if drunk by their imprisonment in the fog.

"Can they enter the Stedding?" Arcanum yelled over the din, yanking hard on his reigns to keep his gelding under control.

"Once, I would've said no. But something happened here." Airene neatly mounted her horse, "It looks like they are just standing beyond the barrier, but who knows if it will hold them indefinitely."

"They outnumber us by at least three times." Cathon called out. "We cannot move out to engage them, and they do not seem to be able to come in. A stalemate of some sort. At this moment. However, I do not wish to be a sitting duck in here. We must leave, even if we must bear the risk of leaving the Stedding."

"My thoughts exactly." Airene pulled off her borrowed medallion and tossed it to Cathon. Then she spun her horse and set off, yelling "FOLLOW ME! Those men who wish to live to see their land again, follow me!"

"You heard her!" Cathon echoed, and nearby soldiers quickly obeyed, until there was a liquid stream of men flowing after her. "Form and hold a perimeter around the Waygate!"

Arcanum spun his horse to reach his Legion, but also maintained a sharp eye on the surrounding host. The Trollocs howled and pounded their weapons together, but did not seem to step forth into the Stedding. A few thrown swords were exchanged between the two deadlocked opponents, and at least one Trolloc toppled, clutching a hilt in his throat. Then, the Band archers moved in, stitching the Horde's ranks with feathered pain. But the Trollocs responded quickly, raising heavy iron shields before them to create a wall against the now impotent arrows. This high level of tactics was something that Arcanum had never seen in the Trolloc Horde, and he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then something caught his eyes. Squads of brutish Trollocs were slowly making their way towards the Stedding, towing giant cauldron-like engines, with steam and smoke billowing out of the opening at the top. Arcanum counted nearly dozens of them from their tell-tale steam trails. Whatever they were, they were trouble.

When Arcanum finally reached the flanking units of his Legion, the sky wept fire. The earth shook as balls of flame struck heavily down. Men and horses were sent flying, and the earth rippled with the impacts. Arcanum was thrown off his horse by the shockwave, landing forcefully on his back. Arcanum fumbled back to his feet amidst the sudden increased movement of the panicked soldiers.

From his vantage point, Arcanum was stunned by the harbingers of their doom. Those numerous cauldron-engines were spewing out fireballs, spiraling and arching through the air, almost without rest. They pounded down among the ranks without mercy, filling the air with soot and sulfurous fumes. Where they landed, they splashed down liquid fire that could not be extinguished.

Thunder Legion attempted to answer back and cover for the Band's escape, but Arcanum's catapults were wholly unprepared and without any arsenals. Desperate men piled on all manners of scavenged items, from swords and shield to broken down pieces of wagons. One such loaded catapult fired, sending thousands of horseshoes hurling through the air. By sheer luck, they struck one of the cauldrons, and somehow managed to block the wide rim. Cracks began to spider web through its exterior, and frothy liquid sprayed out. Then the engine exploded into fragments, slicing through the Trolloc ranks like thousands of knives. But that was the only luck Thunder Legion could boast that day, as the rest of the cauldrons continued to bark their destruction unabated into the Stedding.

As Arcanum dove into the ground from a close hit by one of those machines, he was stunned at how the Trollocs could create such inferno engines. True, they had stolen many secrets, such as Manetheren steel, but these machines were outside anything of human ingenuity.

"Move out the cats!" Arcanum bellowed, clambering to his feet and seeing most of the Band were streaming towards the Stedding-border some distance away, "Our job here is done!"

His Legion responded quickly, retreating back towards the rest of the Band. Fireballs and debris shattered all around them, and screams and moans bloomed and were silenced.

"DIEST!" Arcanum looked to see a mounted Vader and a cadre of cavalry riding toward him, "Move your men quickly! We cannot hold the perimeter around the gate much longer! There will be a thousand paces between the boundary of the Stedding and the Waygate. You must shoot through the gauntlet! Arcanum, you must—"

Arcanum flinched and was crushed to the ground by the roar that swallowed Vader's voice. He felt searing heat crisp his eyebrows and chew at his face and upraised arms. He scrabbled to his feet for what must have been the tenth time that day and gasped. A fireball had descended upon where Vader and his escorts had been, and had scattered and broken them like toy soldiers. The ground flickered with liquid flames, and the corpses began to disintegrate, leaving nothing to salvage.

Cursing, Arcanum stumbled towards the exit with the last batch of his surviving men and their catapults. They pushed out through the border of the Stedding and into the gap of battle. With no boundary here, Trollocs had poured in to battle the Band as they fought their way toward the Waygate. It was sheer chaos on all sides and Arcanum was almost disoriented by the fog of war. But as one unit, he and his Legion hacked their way through the roiling masses, and suddenly saw the burning white light that could only be the Gateway, surrounded by a shimmering dome. Then he cursed. The Waygate was not big enough to allow his catapults through.

"Cut off the catapults! Abandon them!" Arcanum shouted. The teams obeyed readily, dropping their lines to leave the precious engines mired in the mud. Arcanum hacked and hewed past until he reached a barricade that the defenders had erected out of abandoned wagons and carts. He began to slide through a small break in the barricade when a Trolloc face loomed before his own. Then the spawn gurgled and toppled over, revealing the blurred form of Warder, casting death all around the Waygate. Arcanum quickly backed into the tingly translucent sphere. Airene stood at the fore of the Gate, arms raised to hold up her small barrier as the last soldiers pushed in and funneled into the shimmering white portal.

"Vader, is he...?" Airene asked at his arrival, though her eyes closed in concentration.

"Another casualty of war. Damn that stubborn bastard. Are we the last?"

"Go in." Arcanum obeyed, pushing into the bright pulsing entrance and felt himself stretching and bending as if in two places at once. Then he was through, stumbling into the back of the soldier who had entered before.

The first thing he noticed was the blue of the sky and the vibrant grass.

Airene entered and the Waygate inexorably closed.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	24. Eternal Sunshine

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Eternal Sunshine**

They spent only one week in the Ways, a week that was the first respite that the Band of Red Hand had for a long time. With Airene guiding them, riding far in front to decipher the Ogier scripts on each guidestone, the journey was quick. Cathon often took to riding with Airene, more to distance himself from the marching men than any personal preference for her company. He was troubled by much on his mind, with his attention no longer occupied by battle.

Yet even so, it was difficult to focus on oneself when the terrain screamed to be noticed. There was a clamoring exuberance that made it difficult for him to concentrate. It was a pulsing energy—the almost indescribable but unforgettable energy of Spring. It was not only the essence of youth and rebirth, but something that is imbedded in the very psyche of mankind. For spring, there is a smell, a memory, a sensation utterly inexpressible. It is the lushness, the exuberance, the essence of LIFE itself.

But it was also a paradox, for how could there be life in the midst of death, spring in the midst of winter? It seemed an impossibility. But then, what is all this greenness before his eyes. What can it be but the incarnate of eternal spring? Even now, Cathon, though having traveled this Wonderland for weeks, was still surprised by the sensation of spring all around him. He was a man who had spent fifteen years in the shadow of death and winter, and life seemed almost unrecognizable. But, that was not entirely true, for Cathon recognized spring like seeing a lost brother after a lifetime, and spring recognized him.

As he stared upon the vibrant blue sky and felt the cool wind swishing through his graying hair, he felt almost like a boy again. This was the wonders of the Earth that he had forgotten in his quest to slay and kill. But then he reminded himself that it was only a bottled essence of Spring. For in that blue sky, the sun always shone, and he knew that in this land of the Ways, there was no winter. An artificial spring. This was all a sham, like a plastered and frozen smile that does not touch the eyes. This was not the world, nor real life. This was a child's fantasy, and he was no longer a child.

But artificial or not, the men of the Band seemed to enjoy it. When they had first arrived in the Ways, they had been like blind men stumbling into the light and realizing that they could finally see. There was life after all! They greedily took in the sight, the soft grass, the gray-dust road with a striking white line running through the center. But the centerpieces of their attention were the fruit trees planted at the side of the roads, laden with treasures. Figs, apples, pears, apricots, and countless unnamed delicacies.

There was almost a mad stampede as the starved men scrabbled for the first food they have seen in weeks. At the end of the first hour, the ground was pebbled with fruit mush and pulp, and most of the trees were barren of their loads, as if a swarm of locusts had descended.

But the trees aside, there were left mostly to their own devices in this green but lonely land. The men were rejuvenated and some even sang battle hymns, which once would have been suicide in the bitter cold North. Yet, Cathon knew they were still tired. And no matter how much they ate, they were still weak of energy. There was not a single man who did not have sunken cheeks or bagged eyes. Even so, Cathon could often hear the faint notes of "Midean's Ford" drifting from the Legions far behind, but the melody failed to stir his heart. While it was certainly true that the soldiers would not be winning any awards for their voices, it was not the lack of tone that irritated Cauthon.

"Midean's ford," He grumbled, "A hackneyed doggerel that makes men think with their hearts and not their brains."

"Yes, hard to believe that there are still those who believe in hope," Airene replied with an ironic tone, "But we have more important things. For one, we are not alone."

Cathon jerked his head up, and saw the group of massive shapes moving towards them. He bared two inches of steel before Airene held his hand. Then he raised his brows in recognition.

One of the large creatures raised a giant hand, and a deep voice rumbled. "Lo, Warsman, what brings you into the Ways!"

"Let me speak to him, Lawe." Airene murmured to Cathon, "I do not think he will be terribly happy having thousands of men trampling through their grass and trees. Let me handle it."

Cathon nodded his acquiescence and Airene rode up to meet the congregation.

The troupe of Ogiers stopped before them, and by standing alone loomed over the two mounted humans. At a distance, a man might confuse the sight of Ogiers with Trollocs, and often times, had, with embarrassing results. But, size was the only characteristic they held in common. While Trollocs thirsted for war and death, Ogiers were the tenders of peace and life, as well seen in the paradise of the Ways. They were amiable, careful, and intelligent creatures, and now their large dish-sized eyes were focused on the two newest creatures of the Ways.

Then the Ogier who had spoken whom Cathon presumed to be the leader saw Airene and a broad smile stretched across his face, "Ah, Mistress Aes Sedai. You are always welcome here. And I see that your friend is a warsman of Manetheren. I am Halan son of Nadin son of Hasan, Elder of Stedding Shangtai. There is a meeting called, and that is our destination. If we were heading the same way, we would be quite happy to invite you into our company. But pardon my curiosity, what brings you two here? Is there something amiss in Manetheren?"

"Elder Halan, greetings from the White Tower. I am Airene Andalusa, Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, and this warsman with me is Marshal-General Cathon of the Band of Red Hand."

"Truly? We have heard of some of your exploits." Cathon was dubious of Halan's familiarity with his exploits. Ogiers were relatively safe behind their Steddings against the ravages of the Trolloc Wars, and probably to them, seemed irrelevant to their lives.

Airene quickly continued, "Elder Halan, we have entered the Ways because of dire need. We have received word that Manetheren and the Grove is under heavy assault from the Leafburner's Horde. And the Ways were the only possible route in which General Cathon and his Grand-Legion may reach there in time."

"Manetheren under attack?" Halan looked troubled, and there were whispers exchanged between the Ogiers, like the rumblings of a deep birdsong, tickling Cathon's ears. "This is not good. Not good at all, I am afraid. But I see that your need is indeed great, and I hope you speedy return to Manetheren." Halan was silent for a moment. "I will tell you this, but I cannot promise anything. At the meeting, I will try to convince my people to send you aid. But, as you must know, we are not a hasty people, and decisions are not easily made." He sighed, a bumblebee rumble. "It is a beautiful city and a beautiful grove, and I cannot bear to see them lost to the Leafblighter. We will try. We will try."

"My eternal gratitudes." Cathon finally spoke, "But we must be moving. I can hear my legions closing up behind us."

"Yes, yes. But of course." Halan nodded, "I pray you make it on time. No, I _know_ you will make it on time."

"Elder Halan." Airene added as the Ogier troupe was departing and placed something in the Ogier's giant hand, "I have more bad news. Sherandu is no more. The veil of shadows has set on it."

"Yes, we have heard already. A terrible, terrible loss. I fear for us all." Halan murmured sadly into the wind. He glanced at the two _Avendesora_-shaped Way keys that Airene had given him, "I hate to see a Waygate destroyed, but I understand that it must be done."

Then the two groups parted ways, each staring bleakly at the future.

Cathon realized then that everyone had lost something in the war. There were none who escaped the ravages, not even those whose homes are bar to the Shadow. For the Ogiers, safety had been snatched away from them, and perhaps now they realized that they must strike back. For Cathon, it was his men that were lost—his people, his blood. There was the recent loss of Vader, the man who had become the Bastion and the solid leader and commander of the oldest Manetheren legion. He was older than Cathon, though Vader liked to keep his age a secret. And he was the father and the mentor, and certainly well-respected, if not exactly well-liked, by the men. And in the end, it took the fires of heaven to subdue the Bastion. Not even a Shell of Caldazar could keep him from his fate, to die in the flames of glory.

And then there was Jot Diadrem, who would be called an idealist in another time and place. The General who was at one with his men, who refused the Shell of Caldazar, saying "And I will not go into battle knowing that I am at less risk than they are. I ask the same of them that I ask of myself. I cannot." And who is to say that he was wrong? Perhaps the Shell provided no more protection than confidence, and Diadrem was already infused with it.

Cathon almost felt envious of Vader and Diadrem and Glene Hill and the countless nameless thousands that had fallen. They had served and died for their country, with no responsibility or duty to drag them through the world of life. But, what does the future hold for him? Perhaps court-marshaled or, more likely, death with the Band slipping from his grasp. The Shell of Caldazar certainly didn't help Vader, and it is quite conceivable that it isn't certainly going to help him. Such thoughts plagued him from his arrival in the Ways, and his moods became darker and fouler. He didn't understand why. It was a mental trap that green commanders fell for, after their first battle. But burn it if the black temper clung to him like an itch that he just can't scratch, a bloody burning itch.

The worst part was he couldn't keep the bitterness to himself, and he lashed out. Nathen Austern used to bring him reports on the Legion, until Cathon bit his head off for bothering him. The other Generals avoided him like the blood plagues, and even the men themselves became quiet whenever Cathon passed them. Airene was the only one who seemed to stand him, though Cathon often caught her studying him with her bloody Aes Sedai looks.

"What are you thinking about? What have you been thinking about all this time while you snarl to yourself and stare sullenly like a punished child." Airene's voice broke his reverie.

"Me? The scattered thoughts of an old man." Cathon muttered, "How I have sat at the edge of victory, only to stand in the abyss of ruins. How I am utterly alone in this paradise."

"How can you call yourself alone when your men love you? When they would dearly lay their life down for you."

"Exactly. You say that they would die for me. But then it is unrequited friendship, for who would send their friends out to their deaths? No, there is no room in my life for love or friends. When I had met my compatriot of the North, Nonoc Bashere, he had told me, 'You can lead your men, or you can weep for the dead, but you cannot do both.' And I chose the first. And I can weep for no man. And none will weep for me. But why am I telling you this?" Cathon shut his mouth.

"It is a harsh way of living." Airene watched Cathon with her penetrating eyes. That wretched woman was trying to crack his shell, trying to probe into his core, and dredging up his emotions. Well, she is free to them!

"Well, we live in a harsh world," Cathon growled, "Have you not seen this with your eyes? There is no safety, no room for hope or useless emotions. No crusades or causes. We live by the sword and we die by the sword. There is NOTHING but the sword; it is the end-all."

"I refuse to believe that. _You_ refused to believe that! 'There is always hope.' You were the one who told me that. That is what makes us human."

"Well, there is no hope for me. And I was wrong. The Cathon you knew is dead." Cathon did not feel like talking anymore. He didn't ride up here to talk. He wanted some bloody room to clear out his attic, but the fool woman wouldn't keep silent. He nudged his horse to a faster trot, but Airene stubbornly kept up.

"Lawe, look at me! Lawe! You cannot give up now, not when you are needed. Not when your men needs you. Not when humanity needs you. Damn it, even I need you."

"Where's Warder?" Maybe he could change the subject.

She ignored the question, "Lawe, you are acting like a...like a...man! The Light burn it! Bury the past and see the present!"

"Bury the past like all those unmarked graves in the North. The thousands of men who died in a fool's crusade?" Cathon roared, "I am like a man who stood before the destruction of a city, thinking it was the enemy's, until he realized it was his own! DAMN IT! I GIVE UP! They have me on my knees, the Creator, Fate, and bloody Caldazar!"

"Then you really are dead." Airene spoke in her infuriatingly calm voice. "Perhaps I was wrong about you."

"WHY DO YOU CARE? You know nothing of me, Airene!" Cathon seized the reigns of her horse, stopping both horses in mid-trot. He grabbed her arm and pulled her close so they were staring face to face. He whispered hoarsely, "Nothing. I _am_ a General like my father before me. I thought I could be different, that I could break free of this damned vicious cycle. My father died a bitter, bitter man, fighting a war he grew to loath more than death itself. He was a fool too, who believed that there is an end in sight, but he was broken by his own bloody dignity. You know nothing about me. Forget me for I am lost." Cathon repeated himself, glancing away from her, as if drowning in memories.

"I know nothing?" Airene grasped him by the crest of his cloak and pulled him closer until their noses almost touched. Her eyes loomed large and clear. There was a quiver in her normally serene voice, "You want to know what I know? I know about your family, your father, your mentor, and your past. But, most importantly, I know _you_. I _know_ that you are a man with an unfinished destiny, a man that does not have his flame easily extinguished. I remember a brash but fiery man who dared to take on the Dark One himself. I know that you rile against your fortunes. I know that you are mired in your own doubts and guilt. But, I also know that it is _not_ over for you. Though Shayol Ghul still stands, you--YOU--will help bring it to its knees. It may not be in this Turning of the Wheel, but trust me--TRUST ME-- when I say that you will be there at its end.

And for a moment, her voice softened, that for one moment she was vulnerable, as she whispered, "I know all this. And I know that I love you, you damned fool of a man."

Her eyes were wet, but she stared at him defiantly through her tears. Cathon felt like he was pierced by a lance of fire, his mind reeling in shock. At her words, at their meanings.

He drew her in and kissed her, and she returned it willfully.

Then she pulled away, her eyes wide, "And I know that I shouldn't have done that." Her eyes flashed through her tears, but they softened for just a moment, almost pleading. "We cannot speak of this. Not now. I am sorry I did that."

"Airene…." Cathon managed to find his voice.

Airene shook her head fiercely, and clenched his hands tightly in her own, then released them, and rode away at a canter. Though her eyes were red and her cheek was streaked with tears, she sat as if nothing had happened, looking like a regal queen above the world.

Cathon sat there by himself, emotions roiling through his minds. No longer did he felt the black void eating him from inside. No, it was replaced by…by…what exactly? _What was he doing? She's an Aes Sedai! Better to kiss a viper! Come to your sense! An Aes Sedai! And I love her. Burn him for a fool!_

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	25. Homecoming

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Homecoming**

To Stef Reimos, the journey from Shayol Ghul was a blur in his memory. Immersed in the fog of delusions and fever, it was like a dizzy dream where nothing was in focus. Like the rest of the invalids and those too weak to walk, he was at first carried in the wagons, until the vehicles were abandoned at the Waygate in the Blight, or whatever they called that blinding portal which he had stumbled through on the shoulder of another.

Without the wagons, the Band had to share the dwindling supply of horses among the wounded and dying. The crippled and near-death had first call, while others like Reimos had to stumble part of the way, his head swimming and his muscles cramping up. In his daze, the Ways was like a soft breeze felt through a thick layer of wool. There was something there, but there was a wall of haze between them.

He remembered eating fruits, divine to the taste, but his stomach clenched up in protest at the sudden unusual diet. As a result, he had spent the majority of the non-marching hours perched on the edge of the walkways, retching into the blue void. Then tottering back as vertigo almost sent him toppling into the eerie nothingness. Reimos had a feeling that if he fell over, he would be spinning through the abyss for the rest of eternity.

But he survived and grew stronger as he held down more food, his stomach growing accustomed to the new diet. But, others didn't. They were many who were too far gone in their wounds. It was the policy of the Band that no one living is left behind, not if they can take a breath. And as a result, any perched on the brink of death was carried towards home. And despite the best wishes and will, most of them died, and were buried under the fruit trees, holding vigil over the travelers who would pass through this strange land and whispering their last requests into the wind.

So it was in his cloudy but stable condition that Reimos approached the final Waygate, the portal that would take them all home. Home, at last.

There was a rustling uneasiness among the men. Many of them had not been home in decades. Behind that door could be their long-last friends, families, and loves. But behind it could also be the ruins of Manetheren and the very vision of despair itself.

But there was no hesitation. The men poured through, and Reimos was drawn with the flow, the white glow surrounding him and stretching him through the passage of time and space. A deafening ringing sounded in the ear and blackness suddenly exploded into the white.

Then he stumbled into the night to the sound of cries and clashes of sword. Stars danced in his eyes, blinding him, but the sound of battle was unmistakable. Reimos fumbled for his sword, and tried to draw a sword that was not there, with a hand that was not there. He was forced forward by the press of men behind him, and he tried to take a step—a step that did not touch the ground where he expected it to be. He stumbled, and rolled down some distance on the rocky incline upon which the Waygate sat, scraping his face and arms. A hand reached down, grabbed his collar and yanked him up to his feet. He finally shrugged his sword from its new position on his left side with his good hand, holding it awkwardly before him. He had never held a sword in his left hand before, but he had better learn. And quickly.

A sudden motion in front of him prompted him to raise his sword defensively. The blow that came nearly took his sword off, along with his head. The face of the Trolloc came into focus for a second, before nausea claimed his vision. He fought a desperate retreat, backing up as fast as he physically could, only reflex and training keeping him alive.

Then two red blurs rushed past him and the pressure was suddenly off. A gurgle and the Trolloc crumpled to the ground. Red cloaks were all around, and suddenly it was all over, almost before it even began.

Reimos leaned on his sword unsteadily, his hair sticking damply to his head with sweat. He glanced at the corpses of the Shadowspawn lying on the ground, and the various rotting blankets on the ground. A giant cauldron was hanging beside him, on a makeshift frame, before a tight-lipped soldier tipped out the contents to drain its evil content into the rocky soil. _A Trolloc camp. Perhaps a fist or two_. They had poured out of the Waygate into the surprised and unprepared Trolloc, and slaughtered them, quick and efficient.

"Sergeant? You alright?" He felt a hand on his clammy shoulder. "It's me, Cordin. That was a nasty fall. You might want to get those cuts looked at." The voice came as if from a far distance.

"I just need. Rest. Can you. Get my water skin?" Reimos fumbled with the clip on his belt.

"Yeah sure." Brogan unclipped the skin and quickly snapped the top off. Reimos held out his unsteady hand as the young soldier poured the flat water into it. Reimos splashed his face with the flat water, feeling the sting of the cuts on his face. He glanced down at his wet, red hand and let his arm drop limp.

"I…" But before he could finish his sentence, exhaustion suddenly drilled into every single muscle of his body. Reimos would have toppled to the rock ground right then, if Cordin had not caught him. Reimos sensed rather than felt Cordin drape his limp arm across his shoulders and carry him some distance, and laid him on a hard surface that creaked under his weight.

"You there, sarge?" Cordin studied his face, "We scavenged up some of the Trolloc wagons. You'll have to share this with some others though."

"Yeah. No problem. Just tired." Reimos closed his eyes, and was enveloped in a feverish dream that must have carried him through several days. He seemed to have relapsed into his earlier state. He was wakened only for occasional meals, spending most of the journey towards the city of Manetheren in a clammy stupor.

He remembered only pieces of that last few leagues, like still images that flashed into his mind. He remembered the dawning sun shining across his face, wakening him from a restless sleep. He remembered seeing a massive iron gate, forged with both beauty and utility, slowly opening with a deep groan that resonated through the air. There was a cheer that started like a murmuring brook that increased in intensity until the roar shook the earth, and birds took to the sky in fright. A small smile crept onto his face. They were home. They were finally home. As he felt sleep take him again, he clenched his hands possessively around the silver ring that now again hung from his neck.

When he woke, the headache was gone and he could glance at the room he was in without the walls and ceiling moving around him. He was on a pallet, of which many were lined in a row, filled with many others. He sat up and removed his blanket, and saw that someone had stripped him of his clothes, and replaced it with clean cotton trousers and undershirt. Then he saw the ring was still safely fastened to the thong around his neck, and gave a sigh of relief. His cloak hung on a hook above his pallet, looking almost new, washed and pressed.

"I must've been out for days." Reimos' stomach gurgled in agreement, and for the first time, he felt hunger instead of nausea. He swung his legs to the side of the pallet to stand up, quickly dressing in the folded shirt set out for him and carefully setting the red cloak on his shoulder. There was finality in the closing of the clasps, echoing slightly in the cavernous room that housed the wounded. He didn't know how long he had been out, but he had to find the Band. And maybe grab a bite to eat. His stomach grumbled. Well, a couple bites.

"Returnin' to war again so soon?" Reimos froze and turned to see in the neighboring pallet an old man, covered to his wispy chin by his blanket. He looked ancient, his face a maze of wrinkles and lines, his hair all white and radiating from his head like a crown. But, what drew Reimos' breath away were the eyes. They were the eyes of a blind man; the pupils were the lightest blue before white. But they almost appeared to focus on Reimos' face, their milk haze delving into his soul. "Too busy to talk to an old man?"

Reimos had to tear his eyes away from those blind orbs. His eyes lit on the hook above the man's bed and saw the faded red cloak with black etchings of a veteran. "I am sorry to have bothered your rest, Learned One."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" The man grinned wide, showing his two remaining, yellow tooth, "When you're as old as me, you can't be bothered by much, though give me my daily mush and a pot to piss in and I'm right as rain. Though I ain't regular as rain, but I hardly need to be filling your young head with such when you need to be using it for what you be using it for."

The sergeant's head swam with the flood of words pouring out of the old man. I guess he doesn't get visitors often, Reimos realized. He talked like a nomad who has finally been met a fellow man. Or perhaps all old people talk like this. He didn't know, there were few who survived the war to live to a ripe age.

"Learned One, do you know where we are?" Reimos also wondered what the old man was doing in the midst of the new wounded, but he wasn't quite ready to break etiquette.

"You are in the Royal Palace. The zenith of civilization." The man kept grinning his toothless mile, "In the Healers Quarters to be precise. And to why, I expect probably because of that pretty scar you have on you arm there." To this Reimos froze and stared into those milky eyes. "No need to act like a bullied sheep. I may be blind, aye, but there are more ways to look at this world then through the eyes. Perhaps…" Those eyes seem to suddenly focus on Reimos with clarity, and the grin was gone. "Perhaps what you see with your eyes is not really there, but in reality, there is something there that cannot be seen. You see blue, but he sees green, and you both call it yellow. You see? Sight is an imperfect instrument, and perhaps it is good that I am free from its encumbrance. One truly cannot notice something until it is gone." A boney and pale hand slithered out from under the blanket and gently touched the stump of Reimos' arm. The sergeant flinched and jerked away.

"A gift of war." The old man whispered, "We have both left a piece behind and paid a price. Tell me, who is the Marshall-General now?"

"First Lord Cathon." Reimos croaked out.

"Cauthon?"

"Cathon. Lawe Cathon."

"Cathon…Cathon. Does not ring a bell, but then my memory ain't what it used to be. I served with Lord Prodis, you know. Or perhaps you don't know. An arrogant man, but I guess all Lords and Ladies and Barons and Dukes are, though one wouldn't expect it, having them lug their heavy names and titles and entourages around. I suspect that things are quite different from when I served, young sergeant. That is the truth. You know this is the first time that the Band of Red Hand has returned to Manetheren in forty years. It is lonely in the North, is it not? But perhaps..." The old man coughed into his blanket. "Excuse me. Perhaps we will know true loneliness."

He was silent for a moment, "You know where I lost my eyes, son? In Aridhol, no no, not in that cursed city—that was before my time--but fighting for that blasted country. It was a dreadlord who sewed fire into my regiment. A very...special Dreadlord he was. Special in that I once knew and served him before he turned. But, I digress. I did know how I survived. I still don't. I just know that the fire that engulfed us was the last thing and the only thing that I will see. And I can still see the flames flickering before my eyes as we talk. Flicker flicker flicker.

"And I was discharged and sent home. Discharged. What a funny name for that word. You don't really hear that word much anymore. It is an extinct animal, sometimes remembered in the back of some old man's head. Aye it is, I bet you have never heard of it. No, there is no longer a discharge. It is death now. A close friend he is, this fell sergeant Death, who is strict in his arrest. And that sergeant is a fairer end. Look at me, who was given that animal of discharge, who came home to lie in a bed. That is it, until I die. And I can see death now. You see, sergeants like to stick together. Stick together. And I see Death following you. And you follow Death." His grin stretched the skin tight on his face like a fleshless and somewhat wrinkled skull.

"Death?" Reimos muttered. The old man seems to be in quite a stage of advanced senility, but there was some hypnotic power in those eyes that seem to freeze Reimos to the spot. There was insanity in that pale blue, but there was also knowledge. In those blind eyes was the sadness that bound two soldiers of two different generations of the same war. "If death be what follows me, then be it. For I am a soldier. It is my calling and I accept it."

"We are soldiers." The nameless old man echoed, but his voice grew soft and his eyes closed, his voice fell to a dull wheeze, as if it was torture for him to breathe, "And from one soldier to another, one generation to another, I will give you a message. Listen and listen carefully to the blind man who can see. You live in a reality where nothing is what meets the eye. Everything you know is wrong. Everyone you see is false. Betrayal will come from the most trusted. The dead will rise and the living will eat dirt. Death will come to those who are victorious." The last word was an almost inaudible sigh that Reimos had to lean close to hear. Then those eyes closed forever, for they were the last of a generation.

"So is Ol' Sanus ready for his dinner? Or still gabbling his old yarns to you?" A nurse appeared by Reimos. But when she took one look at the old man's lifeless visage, she quickly seized the pale arm that had gone limp. Then feeling no pulse, she shook her head and slowly folded it over his chest. Then she gravely folded the blanket over the blind man's head.

"Did you know… Ol' Sanus well?" Reimos uttered.

"Aye, he has been in my care for some time now. It's really a pity. We knew his time was approaching. He knew his time was coming. He was such a cheerful man and born to talk, of course. He had been a servant in the Palace since, well, long before I was born. But, he was such a lonely man. War was all he knew, and when he came back. Well, he hadn't married and then he was too old . No wife, no children." The nurse shook her head again. "Well, how may I help you, sir? It looks like you're all packed there, ready to leave. You certainly look better than when they brought you in here."

"Aye, I have been bedridden since...I don't remember when." Reimos smiled at the nurse, who was certainly pleasant to look at, with large pretty eyes and an almost impish nose. She wore clean cotton scrubs over a light brown dress, and her auburn hair was wrapped and pinned with a white ribbon. "And I am rather hunger, but I really would like to see how my men are holding up."

"Oh, most of the Band is housed in the Central Barracks just outside the Palace. But, I hear that in the morning, they are setting out for the Tarandrelle. So, are you an officer then?"

"No, milady--"

"Zira will do."

"Stef Reimos." He shook her offered hands. "I'm just a sergeant." Just a sergeant. Like Ol' Sanus

"Well, Sergeant Stef Reimos. I can't stop you from leaving. Just take it easy then. Perhaps we'll meet again sometimes." She winked at him.

"Perhaps, Zira. I would like that." In fact, it was Reimos' strongest desire. He had not been with a woman in ages, but duty was stronger than any desire he had. "I would like that a lot."

He thanked her for her care, though he didn't remember, and shrugged on his pack. He had a duty. As Reimos left the Quarters, he was troubled by the voice of Sanus. He muttered the old soldier's dying words again, "What I know is wrong. What I see is false. Betrayal will come from the most trusted." What did it mean? Who will be betrayed and who will do the betraying? "The dead will rise and the living will eat dirt." Was it just the ravings of a dying man? But is it not said that the dying can see the future, for they are in that thin veil between two worlds. "Death will come to the victorious."

Even in the warmth of the Manetheren Palace, Reimos shivered.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	26. The Approaching Storm

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Six: The Approaching Storm**

"Is this all we have?" Arcanum stared at the rows of glistening and polished catapults lined up in front of the Eastern Courtyard.

"One-hundred and forty four of our remaining stock." Engineering Corp Chief Asa Tirium pulled out a notebook and nudged his spectacles with an oil-sooted finger. "Olgier Grove timber, at least what is left. You know that they burned it down?"

"We came through that way, but we didn't see anything at night. Although the smell in the air was terrible." Arcanum touched the smooth carapace of the closest catapult. "You made some changes."

"Ten years is a very long time." Tirium tapped the curved arm of the catapult, "Steel exoskeleton, reinforced struts, and an overhauled winch system. My pride and joy, the best that Manetheren can offer." He eyed Arcanum through his specs like an owl, "And you'll need it. And it might not be enough. These are straight from the shop, built on rush order, and entirely untested in battle."

"My men will pick these up tonight, Asa, and I think--" Before Arcanum could finish, the ground shook underneath their feet, and pieces of the Palace wall showered the ground from above.

"Bloody probe attacks are getting more and more frequent." Tirium dusted off his shirt and picked up his notebook. "They've been testing our defenses for months. The Aes Sedai are shielding us pretty well, though I've been hearing rumors that they're leaving to-morrow. Nasty pieces of news, if they're true."

"How many Dreadlords?"

"Six plus the Traitor." Tirium adjusted his spectacles, "With the exceptions of these hit-and-runs, they mostly stick to the opposite side of the Manetherendrelle."

"Seven. Aren't we lucky?" Arcanum breathed out. One was bad enough. The most he had ever fought before were three at Tourak's Peak, and the Band barely limped out, an experience Arcanum never wanted to repeat. But seven? Arcanum could not imagine the aftermath of the devastation.

"So this is why we cannot fight them here." Arcanum realized. "We cannot defend Manetheren while perched on its walls. With seven Dreadlords in view of the city, they would tear us to pieces. We must not let the Horde get within sight."

"You are right. We have learned a painful lesson. They did that at Shanaine--tearing down the city, defenders and all. We had two Aes Sedai but it wasn't enough. The survivors thought the world was ending, and who is to say that they were wrong? The ground split, and the walls toppled as if they were children's toys. That cannot happen here with the thousands upon thousands of women and children huddling below their paper-thin roofs." He made a grimace. "I was there, you know. Me and the entire fleet of veteran and hardened cats. Three-hundred crews of our best and brightest, ready to throw back the entire tide. And before even one shot was fired, the ground was rent, and the entire Manetheren fleet was swallowed by the Earth." He paused, lost in thought. "I was buried in that rubble for three days. I could barely hear the din of battle around me--above me--as the Horde savaged through the broken city, laying waste to the survivors. Then, even that faded away, and I was trapped in silence, wondering when I would die or, better yet, if I was dead. On the third day, I heard voices above me, faint but human, and I called out with my remaining strength. Then the debris above me shifted and rustled and sunlight stabbed into my eyes, and I felt fresh air fill my dust-choked lungs once more. I was dug up by the Grand-Legion of the Manetherendrelle, scouring the wreckage for survivors. It was three long days that I never wish to relive. The Horde has passed on, of course. We were--we were like an insect that thought itself safe in its armor, until a giant feet cracked open the shell and plucked out the flesh, leaving a hollow carcass drying in the sun. We were just something that was in the way."

The engineer chief then upended a wineskin in his mouth, and offered it to Arcanum. The general drank from it and tossed it back. The engineer caught it and gazed up at the sky, and tried to lighten the tone, "Almoren Red. I bet you boys never got anything like that up in the North."

"No we didn't." Arcanum agreed, and sat down on the chassis of the catapult.

"Well, that was when we realized that we were sadly out of our league. We could chisel slowly away at them with hit-and-run, but would not make any noticeable difference before the Horde reached Victa Manetheren. That was the precise moment. That was when Aemon sent a cadre of the strongest of his own Heart Guard on the swiftest blood stallions. It was a gamble, but if we were going to stare our own doom in the eyes, than we need every man we can find, especially the illustrious Band of the Red Hand."

Raindrops begin to fall from the sky, drumming softy against the paved ground. There was distant thunder that echoed faintly. People rushed by the Eastern Gates, trying to find shelter before the heavy storm began. A group of large, huddled shapes shuffled across the gates, towering over the rest.

Tirium followed Arcanum's eyes, "There are many survivors. That's the batch of Ogiers left in Manetheren. After the Grove burned. Now they just meander purposeless through the city. And who can blame them? You know how much they loved the Grove. It is as much of their home and heritage as their Stedding. They say home is where the heart is, and they look like those who have lost heart completely. "

Arcanum watched as the Ogiers shambled slowly into the Palace. One of them raised a head, and looked forlornly at the two men, then turned and entered the palatial arches. "How did you survive until we arrived?"

"The question of the year." Tirium jerked the canvas tarp over the top of the catapult, covering it from the rain. "Be the commander. You have two Grand-Legions against a body of Shadowspawn ten times their size, with seven dreadlords--and perhaps more. And darker whispers. The only city in their path to Manetheren has just been leveled, along with the entire fleet of veteran siege engines and two expert Aes Sedai. One week's straight march and they will be at the walls of Manetheren."

"The Marena Line." Arcanum realized suddenly.

"Yes, she was barely a trench when you left, but now...Now, it's fifty leagues of fortified battle works and solid, earthen stockades, and pitted with razor traps, placed on the likeliest route of invasion. One company of men could hold off an entire legion for eternity, and not even this Horde could smash through in less than a season's time. And protected against anything the Dreadlords can conjure up due to sheer volume. I helped design it and I helped build it. After ten years of construction, she was now ready to halt the Black Flood."

"And what happened? Did she?"

Tirium grimaced, "They are smarter and wilier then we give them credit. Perhaps they are leaning from us, becoming...human. They never even attempted the Marena Line. The Horde circled around, passing across the Line to the east, and arching around to strike at Manetheren from the south, where Marena did not cross. We did not expect them to do anything but strike us directly from the north, and this came as a surprise. But, even so, they lost time and Trollocs as they circled around, harried by the Legions on their flanks. We scrambled to react, to somehow throw something in their path. Then, we saw Jara'Copan, right in the corridor. We needed to stall them there. We were willing to sacrifice a Grand-Legion if we had to.

"We evacuated Jara'Copan and bunkered two Legions of volunteers inside, as we worked feverishly to shore up our Southern defense. I was in charge of the city's forces, a rag-tag bunch of decade old stone-throwers and melted down copper pots. We were desperate alright, and knew we probably weren't going to survive after what happened at Shanaine."

The rain increased in tempo, beating down its steady cadence. Both men were now entirely soaked, the water cascading down their cloaks in rivulets. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the courtyard, followed by the thunderclap that drowned out Tirium's voice.

"...a final gambit. Assuming that the Seven don't tear down the walls again. And we were lucky; it was not a second Shanaine. Perhaps they were saving their energy for the capital, or were still recovering from the first city. While the Horde hammered against Jara'Copan, the earth did not swallow us whole. And they could not simply leave the city standing, not with a hostile fortress at their flanks to chew up their numbers. Jara'Copan became our bait. Every night, the defenders began to sneak out the mud gates in squads. For almost a month as a skeleton crew and I remained in the greatest bluff that we had ever created. And it worked. Caldazar was surely flying above us. When the Inner gates were finally broken, and the Trollocs swarmed in, there were but two scores of soldiers manning the keep's defense, scurrying out through the tunnels at the last minute."

Tirum chuckled dryly. "I could remember running the last gauntlet after lighting the match to the final surprise. Jara'Copan was now filled with Trollocs and empty of men. And every stone in that city was soaked with naph and brew. There was no stopping that inferno once the fuse was lit. It was a tomb for the Horde that day. Jara'Copan made everything possible, this brand new fleet and the survival of Victa Manetheren until your arrival. Everything is in its place for tomorrow, bound in the Creator's will."

"Almost too perfect." Arcanum breathed into the rain. "I do not think this storm will let tonight. Or tomorrow. It feels...unnatural." A flash of lightning arched down, almost simultaneously with its thunder, striking onto a spire of the palace. Darkness quickly took back the night, but Arcanum's gaze was still locked onto the glimmering spire where the lightning bolt had coursed through, and an idea formed.

Tirium took another swag from his wineskin, "I think you're right about the storm, General. I can feel it deep inside my bones."

"My friend, I fear that this is just the face of a stronger storm. And we must use all our ingenuity and resources these coming days if we do not want to be swept away."

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	27. Wolf King of Manetheren

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Wolfking of Manetheren**

The storm of ages raged against the Palace walls, lightning crackling in the high-set windows, painting stark shadows across the Hall. Thunder roared in the air, and the palace seemed to shudder as it felt the weight of great forces converging.

The sound of Cathon's heavy boots on the polished floor echoed and resounded through the hall, punctuated by the heavy drumbeats of the rain and the staccato thunder. He was flanked by Austern, Airene Sedai and Warder as they marched through the massive hallway, the tapestries fluttering and the palace shivering.

One man stood before them, a tall gangly man leaning on a staff and wrapped in a dark amethyst cloak. He waited until the four had stopped before them, and the echoes of their footsteps diminished. Lightning lit the halls, highlighting the old, wily visage of the Royal Vizier, Ilak Didam.

"I must apologize for the lack of lighting." The vizier shifted on his gnarled staff which creaked slightly on his weight. "Even the oil for the lanterns has been reserved. Well, my Lord, you are expected. Come. If you will follow this old man."

Didam straightened and walked farther down the hallway, to Cathon's eyes appearing to be more fluid --and dangerous-- than one would expect from the old man. The end of the hallway was marked by the solid shadow of a doorway, looming higher as they neared.

They were two wolfheads carved in that solid oak throne door, their eyes gazing like fiery orbs onto all who walk into the presence of the King. But standing before the door were wolves of a greater and more dangerous breed. The legendary Heart Guards of Manetheren fold. Wearing their unique black-red cloaks, each was a woman with blazing wolflike eyes and a long sword-tipped spear over each gold-mailed arm. They were selected and trained and hardened for the one purpose of protecting the King. Cathon had crossed blades with a Heart Guard but twice--only once in the practice ring--and it was most defiantly an event which he did want to relive.

As Cathon and Dadim approached, the two Heart Guards at the door did not even blink. But when the Royal Vizier had walked between them, they immediately crossed their _ashenderai_ behind the Vizier, snapping the gleaming steel blades to block Cathon's way. Cathon may be a First Lord, but in all matters of the King, a Heart Guard can deny even him passage. They were Aemon's hand and voice, with all the trappings and power.

Dadim knocked light upon the door, and with a brief delay it began to open, swinging inwards as pulled by the two Heart Guards stationed inside. The Vizier cleared his throat and bowed smoothly into the room, "My liege the King, I present Lawe Cathon, First Lord of Manetheren and Marshall-General of the Grand Legion of Manetheren and the Band of Red Hand, who requests permission for an audience."

"Granted." A voice boomed down the throne room halls.

The Heart Guards uncrossed their Ashandarei, tapping the ends to the floor in recognizance. Dadim nodded to Cathon, and bowed to the side.

Airene whispered to Warder, who gave a reluctant affirmation and took station across the corridor from the Heart Guard. He matched stares with the two Guards, and Cathon would find it difficult to wager who would win in a fight, but he certainly wouldn't be anyway near if that happened. With this exchange over, Cathon strolled into the room, Airene and Nathen trailing closely behind him.

Upon entering, Cathon almost smiled at the feeling of familiarity and nostalgia. The throne room was a massive piece of art, carved from the heart of the mountain. Stained glass mounted at each side filtered in the colored lights to dance on the marble floor, although tonight, the colors were gray and subdued and the glass was beaded with raindrops. The vaulted ceiling drew each whisper like a shout, echoing it for the whole world to hear. Their steps resounded heavily as they crossed through, and the door closed behind them with a shuddering slam.

Standing before the Throne were four men and six women. The foremost was the tall, striking figure of Aemon al Caar al Thorin, Wolf King of Manetheren, Holder of the Red Chalice, and Stone Warden of the Mountain Home. A sheathed greatsword was belted to his waist, and a red cloak flowed from his broad shoulders. The red cloak of the Band of Red Hand.

"It has been a long time!" Aemon called, his voice thundered in their ears. It was very much like that of General Diest Arcanum's, except flavored by culture and aged like fine wine. And why not, for Aemon was Arcanum's second blood-cousin. The King strolled forth, extending his massive hand.

Cathon grasped the hard hand in his own and bent his knee, "As you call, we heed."

"A very long time indeed." Queen Eldrene glided over, drawing Cathon's breath away. She was like he remembered her, her sun-danced tresses flowing lightly to her silk-draped shoulders. The last time he saw her, she was just a blossoming beauty, with marigolds braided in her hair, and dancing carefree in the verdant fields that must now be blackened with death. But that time was long past. He could see the wisdom and experience in her eyes, and the sadness and worry that comes with it, like a mirror to his own.

"My queen." He bowed and kissed her offered hand. As he straightened, she extended the arm to touch the medallion on his chest, a slim finger circling the design of the black-white circle cradled in the fox's eyes. Her crisp, blue eyes met his own for a long moment, and then both drew away.

"So you wear it." Aemon remarked, his eyes having also seen the Shell of Caldazar. "The last defense of Manetheren."

"So it is." Cauthon agreed. "And I return what was loaned to the Band."

He extended the red-gold box that was the cradle of Caldazar's shells, placing it firmly into the hands of its rightful owner. Then he lowered his head to remove his medallion but was stopped by Aemon's hand.

"So it be." Aemon opened the box with a light touch. The Cradle needed no blood from the King to attest his rightness. He gazed down at the remaining Shell then snapped the box shut once more.

Cathon continued, "My King, this is my Adjutant, Nathen Austern, and my Advisor, Airene Sedai."

"Yes, you recognize that this is to be a council of war." Aemon nodded at the two with Cathon, then the King turned to those who stood behind him. "These two gentlemen I am sure you recognize. First Lord Cysil and Second Lord Donahin, Generals of the Grand-Legions of Jara'Copan-no-more and Manetherendrelle -- your compatriots. And my advisors, Kariline Sedai, Relari Sedai, Iaveline Sedai, Masotomi Sedi, and Surelli Sedai."

Lord Cysil was a gaunt man, pale complexioned with a severe scar that etched down the side of his face. Donahin was almost the opposite, a dark man with a bricklike jaw and short of stature. The five Aes Sedai simply watched with their ageless faces. From a quick study of their shawls, Cathon counted two reds, two greens, and one yellow. They studied Cathon with a practiced eye, and then appeared to dismiss him, turning their attention to Airene, who made no visible response.

"It is good to have you and the Band back." Cysil said, "We've been harrying the invaders since they crossed the borders, cutting their numbers down. But now, their eyes are set on this city, and there is nothing left for us but a full confrontation."

"Today will perhaps be our last day of relative peace. The Horde are burning and pillaging the nearby villages, but have not put any organized attempts on the city, outside of some scouting. But, the Dreadlords are starting to mass them along the Manetherendrelle perimeter."

"How many?" Cathon immediately asked.

"Seven. We've sighted the banners of Ogrin Kai, the Fist of Chobok, Ingo Blade, the Black Fangu, the Riven Eye, Mordisiac Horadine." Donahin paused for a moment, "And, the seventh, the Traitor's army. Vanigan's...army."

"And that is not the worst part." Cysil added.

Donahin hesitated, "They have raised the standard of Ba'alzamon."

Cathon froze at this, his blood chilling in his veins. "Ba'alzamon?"

"Say true. And we estimate almost a million Trolloc."

Cathon whistled with his clenched teeth, "We have a chance I think. With six Aes Sedai, I believe…" Then he stopped as he suddenly realized there was an awkward silence.

"We will not be staying." One of the Red--Surelli?--proclaimed. "We are leaving tonight."

"But we are surrounded by Shadowspawn--"

"We have our ways out." The Aes Sedai interrupted.

"Lord Cathon," Aemon said soothingly, "The Aes Sedai have promised us reinforcements. They need to coordinate the Covenant armies."

"Is this true?" Cathon watched their eyes, but not a single brow flickered.

"Will two hundred thousand additional men save you, General?" Surelli remarked offhandedly.

"Do you usually answer a question with a question?"

Her eyes flared, "You have all you need to know. I do not have time to be interrogated by the likes of you. We have our orders. We leave, Sisters." Then her eyes moved to Airene, "And you too, Sister, if you know what is good for you."

The five Aes Sedai glided past, not sparing another glance, except for the Yellow who whispered something to Airene before running after her sisters.

As the Heart Guards opened the door, Surelli turned around, "You must hold for three days. Until the dawn break of the third day." Then they were gone, the door slamming behind them.

"You shouldn't antagonize them, Lawe." Eldrene scolded him, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"We are left without a shield against the greatest force that has ever been brought to bear against our soil." Cathon turned to Airene, "Can we trust them?"

"Can we trust them?" Her mouth was a straight line. "Do not forget that I'm an Aes Sedai, General. As is your Queen."

"Yes, and that is why I ask. Can we trust them? Is this Covenant force real?"

"I refuse to answer that, General." She narrowed her eyes, "But if you care, I am staying with you. I mean, Manetheren. You as in Manetheren, not you you…Never mind." She stared back at Cathon, daring him to say anything.

Cathon looked questioningly up at Eldrene.

"The Amyrlin and I haven't been on the best of terms but we have no reason to believe otherwise, general. The word of the Tower is truth." She answered mildly.

"Three days." Cathon chewed on that idea. "We can hold for three days. We will meet them on the Manetherendrelle with our forces. Pull everything off the Northern front. We must march by tomorrow if we must hope to keep the Horde out of sight of Manetheren."

"And the Dreadlords? And the...other?"

"As the Wheel wills." Cathon sighed.

"The night will be long, and the coming days longer. This will be the longest day of our lives, gentlemen. Take a seat and let us talk of men and generals." Aemon motioned to the Petitioners' table.

Each of the men took a chair, and began to pour over the order of battle for the coming days. The oil chandelier flickered and burned above, and the storm beat on the stained windows. A servant had come in--Cathon didn't know when--and left a tray of mulled wines, which Cathon drank more than his share.

Some time deep into the night, Cathon leaned back, his head swimming with figures and numbers. Aemon was arguing with Donahin on the best placement of the reserves while Cysil was rummaging through the latest scout reports on troop movements.

"Time is a river that heeds no man." Eldrene took a seat beside him and turn her crystal eyes to his. She had been deep in conversation with Airene.

"...for Time is a woman." Cathon finished, a smile gracing his lips, memories rushing into his head.

"You remembered." She replied him with a brief smile.

"You've changed, Eldrene."

"I've changed?" She plucked at his beard with her nimble fingers, "I like what you've done here. When last I saw you..." She trailed off.

"We did not leave on the best of terms, I'm afraid."

"That's quite an understatement. But let us leave the matters of the past lie. We are adults now." She glanced at the giant map spread over the table. "I have missed you. More than you might know." She touched his cheek lightly. "I gave you that scar, didn't I?"

Cathon chuckled and rubbed at the smooth mark, "Perhaps."

"Well, I forgive you. Do I have your pardon as well?"

"You had but to ask. To think we were so foolish once. And now a nation rests at our feet." Cathon grew serious. Nostalgia drained away in the face of reality.

"General Cathon," Aemon called out, startling Cathon. "What is your opinion on the most recent Horde's troop movement."

"Let me not take you from your work. I must retire." Eldrene spoke softly and stood up. She whispered some words to the King and quickly departed.

Cathon watched the Queen leave then took the creased papers from Aemon's proffered hand. "Looks like a direct three prong attack. No guile and secrecy on their part. They want a full engagement and we cannot help but be bullied into it if we are to hold them." But even as he spoke, his thoughts were somewhere else, somewhere fifteen years past.

"Yes, yes. I see..." The King murmured, but it seemed Aemon's attention had wandered off as well. He had removed the last Medallion from the cradle and was now rolling the medallion in his fingers, rubbing the smooth surface. When Cathon had finished, Aemon softly tapped its silvery edge on the table and turned his head slightly as if to listen. There was a slight awkward silence.

"Sir?" Cysil asked, coughing.

Aemon stirred slightly, "You know, this is not the first time that there was a Last Defense. These medallions are not unused. If you touch them, you can almost feel the essence of the previous holders." He traced the symbol of the fox's eyes. "I am sure you have heard of how Sorella forged it from the mountain of fire. And that is a likely truth as any." Aemon rapped the Shell on the table. Tap tap tap! In his eyes were a look that spoke of forbidden knowledge. Cathon did not understand what Aemon was leading to and was not certain that he wanted to. Tap tap tap. A smile touched the King's lips. "But perhaps it is older than we think. Perhaps it is not as human as we think."

Lord Donahin's jaws were slightly agape, and Cathon felt his own skin crawling. He felt as if his Shell was winking.

"And to listen to me talk, one would think me less than sane." Aemon sighed, "I speak but the words do not hold water. I apologize, but it is almost as if it is drawing something from me, like a pleading and haunting voice that cannot be silenced. That must be obeyed. Never the mind, it is not important. No, words are meaningless. I will speak with action."

With that, he bowed his head and slipped the medallion's chain over his head. Realization dawned on the generals.

Aemon folded his fingers over the Shell. "I have spent the last fifteen years sitting in this dusty hall, Sanction's honed edge lying wasted in its scabbard. I will ride tomorrow with my men." He waved off the protestations of the generals. "The Band of Red Hand is my army and I rode with them in Aridhol and Coremanda. I do not want to live history as the King who sat while the city burned. Let my people see me and know that their King is with them. Let my enemies see me and stir themselves into a frenzy. If I die, so be it. I am a King, but I am also a soldier, and that is our creed. I will hear no arguments."

"As you command, my King." Cathon acquiesced warily.

"Welcome to the flame." Tirium downed his wine.

"Merciful Caldazar." Donahin finished.

"I think this meeting is nigh over. We have some hours before we ride. Try to get some rest if you can." Aemon ran a hand through his hair.

Cathon stood and shook the hands of the generals and the King and stretching his cramped muscles. Austern collected the papers for Cathon and trailed after him. Airene was gazing at the storm beating against the stained windows, a finger twisting a lock of hair absentmindedly and a odd look on her face, as if in puzzlement.

He shrugged and exited the doors held open by the Heart Guards. Passing him was the Queen once more, and there was a brief exchange of glances, and then she was in, and he was out.

As he and Austern walked down the poorly-lit halls, Airene and Warder caught up smoothly.

"So it seems you are closely acquainted with Aemon." Airene asked.

"He is my King, no more and no less."

"And the Queen?" Her tone was nonchalant, but the way she said it caused Cathon to miss a step.

His adjutant took that hesitation to join in, a bemused grin on his face, "The Lord General was quite the romantic when he was young. His competition with the King for Elisende's heart is almost legendary, why you can--"

"That's enough, Nathen." Cathon interrupted, trying to hide his grimace. "I'm sure the Lady does not need to know my history or my long past youthful indiscretions."

"Why, sir, you must have had a very long youth then." Nathen added.

"Are you feeling well, Airene?" Cathon asked the Aes Sedai, seeing her troubled expression. Most of his own personal demons had been locked away once he had set foot on Manetheren soil, where he had felt more like his old self, though sometimes in the late of night, he would wake, covered in sweat and reservations, cursing himself and all of creation.

"I'm fine. Just a headache. This storm makes me feel agitated for some reason. Something in the air. Like the calm before the storm. Except the storm is already here. But yet it's not. It's rather confusing." She frowned.

Cathon nodded unconsciously. He too felt the tension in the air, like an itch on the back of his neck that he just couldn't scratch. He's had hunches before, many times in his careers, so numerous that he had lost count. But now, he could swear something was about to happen. And he was probably right. They would be riding out to the final judgment very soon.

It didn't help that the storm was no doubt supernatural in origin. They were alone in the dark halls whose walls were embedded with dead and darkened torches. A man was walking towards them. The storm was still raging outside, lashing away at the men bunkered restlessly in their barracks. Their boots resonated, bouncing between the walls, but it was a lonely sound. A man was walking towards them. Somewhere a brood lark cried, and the wind hissed its threats against the palace walls. A man was walking towards them. A small creature--perhaps a rat--scratched and scampered in the walls.

"It was a dark and stormy night." Cathon muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Nathen's voice echoed oddly.

Cathon just shook his head, with a rueful grin.

His hand was a blur, almost disappearing in the dark light.

There was a crack of the sword pulling from the scabbard and the hiss of the blade arching up. Though it took barely a second, it was almost too late.

The assassin opened his mouth but no sound came out. Cathon's sword was thrust cleanly through his chest, barely a foot away.

Cathon stared into the man's eyes. There was nothing behind the eyes. This was not to say the man was dead. No, for behind those black lightless orbs was sheer oblivion. The nothingness that was the chaos of Unbeing. It was an emptiness that tugged at Cathon's soul, pulling him towards insanity.

The man moved closer, walking down the sword in his chest towards the wielder, as if he had not just been dealt a fatal wound. He raised his dagger, its curved edge catching Cathon's trapped eyes. Its name was Death.

Then the dagger fell along with the arm. The man slumped, held up only by the Cathon's blade. The general dipped the blade and the body--which had almost definitely died months ago-- slipped off, and crumpled to the ground.

There was the shimmer of steel as both Warder and Nathen drew their blades and Airene's sharp gasp. Perhaps a little too late, Cathon mused. By now he would've already been laid low by the phantom blade. Saved by reflex and something else? Intuition? Luck? A voice in the back of his head that wouldn't be stilled?

Warder had spun back to face the way they had, his keen eyes scanning for others like the slain. Once one was looking for them, phantom blades are not terribly hard to see. But if one wasn't looking for them, then there were obvious a problem. Mortal eyes see what is not there because they want it to be true. And the reverse is true, so unfortunately true. They don't see what's there, because they don't want to. If one truly saw them the human void for what they were, like Cathon had in those bits of seconds, they would became blind to the world. And blind in their soul.

Cathon snapped his blade in a circular motion, returning the circulation to his hands, "What would one Blade want with us?"

"They shouldn't be able to enter the Palace. Karaline said that they had wards around the palace grounds." Airene carefully drew the slender blade from the pallid hand and swept down the hallway with an alert eye. "They don't usually come alone. If one could get in here--"

"The King." Cathon broke into a run. He did not need Airene to finish her sentence. He could hear them jogging behind until he skidded to a stop at the junction before the Throne room. Nathen stumbled into him from behind, but he didn't pay any attention.

"Airene, stay behind me." Cathon ordered, his sword poised at the ready. He stared at the carnage before him. Six Phantom Blades sprawled dead on the crimson carpet, but so were the two Heart Guards, their ashenderai blooded and still grasped in their dead hands.

There were two survivors. The first spun and raised his swords as the four arrived upon the scene, but quickly lowered his blade. The second was looking slightly worse for wear, leaning hard against the door, but his sword still gripped firmly in hand.

"Donahin! Cysil!" Cathon jumped over the corpses, sprinting towards the two generals.

"Light, are we glad to see you. Thought you were more of them." Cysil's eyes flickered past their shoulders. "We got attacked when we exited. Donahin was the first out and he took a nasty scratch. The Heart Guards were already dead, but they already took down most of the blades. They've barred the door from inside. I don't know who. There's sound of fighting. We tried to break down the door, but Donahin can barely lift his sword."

Donahin lifted his head and shook it. His eyes were sallow and his hair was damp with sweat. "I'm fine. We need to get to the King."

"Guard my back." Airene brushed past Cathon and placed her right hand on Donahin's chest. To Cathon, it seemed to be a light touch, but Donahin recoiled, sliding up on the door as if stung. She pulled her hand away with the ripping of his cloth, to expose his skin. There was barely a two-inch slash on the upper chest, but it was black and inflamed. Raised black veins extended from the puncture site, branching off in rivulets of ink.

"This has not reached his heart. Lie down, general." The Aes Sedai opened her left hand to reveal a statuette cradled in the palm. "Go to your King. I will try to heal him. If it is still possible." She placed her palm over the wound, hovering but not touching. Warder stood at the ready behind her, stone eyes scanning for more assassins. Then both the statuette and her hand began to glow a pure whiteness that seemed to suck the light from the hallway. Donahin shivered, all the muscles in his body clenched. His fingers stretched in a rigid pose, and his sword fell from his grasp, tumbling to the marble floor with a clatter that snapped Cathon from his trance.

The Wolf Door slid open.

The standing generals immediately cast their weapons up, to discover two blades at their own necks. There was a tense pause as the generals stared into the eyes of the Heart Guards, swords and ashenderai crossed in a frozen still.

"Enough. Stand your weapons." Aemon's voice boomed. "Let them through."

There was a shift of leather as the Heart Guards lowered their spears, but appeared ready to raise them at the slightest alarm.

Cathon snapped his blade, transferring his sword to a hilt-up grasp, but kept it unsheathed. The Heart Guards stood aside, allowing the generals their first view of the room.

The once-lit room was buried in darkness, the chandelier swinging darkened and the fireplace a murky pit. Wind immediately assailed the two men, the chill biting deep through their cloaks. Cathon looked up towards the source, the rows of stained glass windows were shattered, allowing the rain to flood down the walls in cascades. The floor was already wet with puddles and littered with the shards of once-beautiful glass images.

Aemon stood in the middle, the greatsword Sanction gleaming wetly in his grasp. Beside him, Queen Eldrene held a ball of glowing light that shed scattered beams across the room, throwing deep shadows over the dark figures lying motionless around them, as in a circle of death. Ilak Dadim was kneeling over one of the corpses, gingerly searching the assassins' forms. There were as many as ten of them--maybe more--a serious business.

"Are you hurt in any way, my King?" Cysil called forth.

"We are quite fine." Aemon straightened his cloak. "They came in through the windows. And that was their problem. Their masters created them for stealth, and it is quite difficult to conceal their entrance in this manner. Whoever sent them was obviously in a hurry or...Where's Lord Donahin?"

"He suffered a glancing wound from an ambush outside in the Hall." Cysil answered, "Cathon's Advisor is attending to him right now. We lost both Guards, my Lords."

Aemon nodded grimly, "I suspected as much. This is a daring move to destroy the Manetheren leadership, and we must expect more. Though I find it odd that they knew exactly when to strike, unless they had spies, which in this age of Darkfriends, is no surprise. It is also entirely possible that this wasn't the only action taken." Then he paused. "Did you hear that?"

Through the veil of rain pierced a distant and muffled horn, repeated and scattered, but its existence was undeniable.

"The City Gates have been breeched." Cathon spoke what everyone had just realized.

"Impossible!" Cysil uttered, "Last scout report records no activity past the Manetherendrelle. They could not have struck without warning."

But there was the distant alarm again.

"They have made the first move." Aemon sighed. Heart Guards began to sweep into the Throne Room, their Ashenderai bared, called by the alarm to protect their King.

"So it begins." Cathon felt a rising coldness deep within him. "Time to roll the dice."

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	28. Most Trusted

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Most Trusted**

The blade glimmered dully in the candle light, its once virgin sheen now etched and covered with years of use and age. Reimos slowly turned his wrist, keeping a stiff grip on the well-worn leather-wrapped hilt. He rotated the plane of the sword and nodded satisfactorily at the new-learned control in his left arm.

"How does it feel?" Tayren asked, glancing up from the card game with the other gate guards.

"It's the oddest thing. Feels like I'm missing my right hand… oh wait, I am. " Reimos grumbled, keeping his eyes on the blade. "I've strengthened my left arm, but in a battle, I do not know how it will fare. I need more time in the practice yards."

"I'm sure you also liked having that little nurse of yours ogling you too."

"Zira. Her name is Zira." Reimos turned an eye toward Tayren. "And its purely professional. She's not what you make it out to be."

But Reimos knew that wasn't quite true, although it had been somewhat innocent at first.

His first time in the yards, Reimos was stripped to his waist as he tried to relearn all the skills he had stored in right hand. And he was failing. He was born a right-handed man and would continue to be one, regardless of the existence of the limb in question. The sword did not even feel the same way; its weight and touch was alien and out of place. He held and swung the blade awkwardly, stumbling through novice exercises that he would once have scoffed at. After an hour with seemingly no progress, Reimos threw his gladius to the sword with disgust.

"You shouldn't give up so soon." Reimos raised his head to the speaker. Zira was sitting on one of the benches lining the yard, watching him with those big eyes of hers. She wasn't wearing her nurse's smock and her long hair now framed her face. She reached beside her and tossed him his shirt.

"What brings you here, Zira?" He reached out to catch the shirt, but it fell through the missing hand, drifting to the dirt. He sighed, plucked up the shirt with his left hand, and wiped the sweat from his face, tossing it onto his shoulder. "No patients?"

"For some odd reason, soldiers don't like being confined to the bed. As soon as they have regained a semblance of thought, they're out the door, even if they have to drag themselves."

"You don't say." Reimos retrieved his sword.

"Come on up and let me take a look at you. Anyway, you shouldn't give up so soon." Zira repeated. "You just need to build up the strength on the left arm and coordination comes with practice. Healing isn't fast. If it was, we would not have the opportunity to learn from our mistakes."

Reimos took a seat beside her, "And this comes from personal experience?"

"I am a nurse after all." She raised his right arm, studying the point of amputation. It was largely healed, covered by a smooth skin. "I have known many amputees. Too many, if you ask me. Many of them would have preferred to have been killed rather than live less than whole. But, then there are those who grow stronger. You look like one of the latter, Sergeant Stef Reimos. You look like a survivor."

"Let's hope so." Reimos replied. "Do you always give such attention to every one of your patients."

"Perhaps I'm just bored. You remind me of someone I had once known. I hope I'll be seeing you around, sergeant." She kissed him on the cheeks, straightened her skirts, and hurried away.

Everyday after, she came to watch him practice his blades. His sword-handling began to improve, as did his mood and demeanor. Sometimes Zira even managed to persuade him into a walk into the Palace Gardens. And well, after years of looking at mud and more mud, the trip to the gardens wasn't exactly torture. But Reimos wasn't going to endanger his image by admitting it. At least in public.

"So I hear the Band is setting out for the Manetherendrelle." Zira remarked on one of the walks, clutching tightly to his arm. They were sheltering under the boughs of a large greendrew tree, caught surprise by the breaking of the clouds.

"Aye." Reimos stared glumly at the streams of water already forming by the pebble path. "Just our luck to be walking into this. This'll be like Jaramide all over again, in the spring when all the snow melts and become sh…brown…um…colored mud."

"We will win, right?" Zira pulled him closer, "You will come back to me in one piece."

"We cannot lose. There is a rightness in what we do."

"Just because you're right does not mean you'll live. The most judicious man of the world is no more protected from mortality than the vilest. Go away with me, Stef. Run away from all of this. There are still places untouched in this world." She pleaded.

"That I cannot do."

She pressed her lips fiercely to his, and they were lost in their embrace. And for a moment were lost in that place untouched by war. And for a moment--

"Hey, Sarge." Tayren grinned, "Thinking of the Miss? Mayhaps she pay us a little visit tonight? Cause if she's into you, then she's gonna love me."

"She'd gut you like a fish. Mind your business." Reimos grunted, laying his sword on the table, and began to clean it with grease. "None of your light forsaken business."

A bird suddenly fluttered in through the tower's only window slit, dripping and spraying droplets everywhere. Tayren snatched it out of the air, smoothly keeping his cards hidden in hand, and turned the pigeon upside down.

"Looks like some messages from the scouts." He pulled the bone container out and tossed the bird away, which scrambled onto the mantle of the fireplace, its head cocked as if looking for seeds.

"What, we looking at some company tonight?" One of the card players muttered, his eyes glancing at his remaining tokens forlornly.

"Nah, it says here that all's well. Figure they'd send something completely useless like that." Tayren crumpled up the paper and tossed it smoothly into the fire. "Come on, let's take a looksee at your cards. Well, look at that. I got the Dark One's own luck tonight."

There was a general grumble as Tayren raked in the pile of tokens. With a practiced hand, he sorted out the useless paper notes from the cold hard specie, occasionally biting down on a dubious coin.

"Alright, folks, just to make sure there's no hard feelings, a free round for everyone." Tayren reached down and plopped a full wineskin on the table, "Got it straight from the Markey. Cut off my own hand –no offense, sarge-- trying to get someone dumb enough to accept those paper fodder they pay us."

Reimos chuckled softly. Tayren could swim through a mile of sewage and come out smelling like a flower. Already, the mood in the room was lightening as full mugs began to replace empty pockets. Perhaps, they might not notice the cards Tayren was slipping from his sleeve into his pouch.

Only one of the guards refused a drink. A private named Sanak or some sort, his face looked perpetually like he was chewing on a lemon. He had the same pinched look on his face as he barked, "No drinks on guard duty."

"Aw, come on, son." Tayren cajoled, pushed a mug towards him. "Just one."

"No, be glad I do not report you." Sanak tipped the mug on to the floor, then turned his eyes to Reimos, the only sergeant in the room, "And you should know better, sarge."

"I certainly should, shouldn't I?" Reimos remarked mildly, catching the mug that Tayren slid across the table. He drank it down in two gulps. It left his mouth feeling numb and a trail of fire down his gullet. Tasted a little vinegary, but considering the circumstances, he wasn't complaining. He'd been dry for so long that just one drink left him a little dazed and slightly disoriented.

"Damn, that has a kick." Reimos murmured to himself, and shook off a second offer. "I think you got cheated, Tayren, because someone sold you cat piss."

The numbness in his mouth did not fade away slowly as he was expecting, instead spreading like a web of coldness that permeated every inch of his being. Alarm bells began ringing in his head. He lunged for his blade, lying close on the table, but his arms didn't seem to want to respond. He clipped the table, and hit his chin on the surface, but he didn't feel the collision.

A mug shattered to the ground, and a guard slipped from his chair, pawing futilely at his belt sheath. Sanak, the only person who did not drink, stood up, his eyes widening and drawing his gladius.

Tayren was faster. Before Sanak could move a step, Tayren's sword was buried in his chest, and the soldier toppled like a sack of bricks.

"No respect these days." Tayren's voice was far darker than Reimos has ever remembered him being. He walked quickly to the door and lowered the iron bar, sealing the tower from the world.

Reimos tried once more to grapple at his sword with an unresponding hand, but only succeeded in pushing it off the table. No! This couldn't be happening! With all his will, he forced himself to fall after the sword.

Then Tayren was standing over him, casually kicking the gladius away from his reach. "Sorry, friend. Can't let you have that." The face glowed sinisterly in the candlelight, and a dull gleam was in the eyes of the sergeant's most trusted friend.

The traitor seemed to have read the look in Reimos' eyes. For a moment, there was a crack in the surface of the ugly mask, and there was a pleading tortured man trapped in a prison.

"I cannot stop it. In Jaramide—I didn't escape—They caught me. I am so sorry." Tayren stood up, and Reimos followed his movement to the massive wench and chain that controlled the Inner Gate. That was insanity! It takes both towers around the gate to raise it. And two more controlling the Outer Gate. What makes him think--

There was the muffled rattling of chains being loosened, but Tayren had not yet touched the winch, simply waiting. But hearing the same noise, Tayren closed his eyes and began to cycle through the winch.

Reimos closed his eyes in despair. They were everywhere, even in the home of Manetheren. If he could have made a Darkfriend his friend, and his confidante in his own foolishness and blindness, where else could they have nestled, simply waiting for the time to strike. But how was it possible? He shivered in his drug-induced state. He could already hear the creak of the Drawbridge of the Outer Gate falling across the moat. Four towers, with armed guards each, and they got them all.

Then came the sound Reimos dreaded the most. The clop of heavy footsteps crossing through that did not belong to any human source. The pigeon that Tayren caught, Reimos realized, was the warning that they were supposed to receive. Now, it was too late, the message intercepted by treasonous guile. And the Horde was marching into their homes in the dead of night.

The sergeant part of Reimos screamed at him, pounding into his head. This was not going to happen on his watch. If he could either overpower Tayren or raise a warning. Reimos shuddered, his conscious floating in the sea of whiteness. He sent the tendrils of willpower outwards, forcing contacts into his dead muscles, urging them to work.

There was a distant cry of alarm, and the sound of scuffle just within the gates. A horn tone cracked through the storm, quickly taken up by more. There was still hope. If they could close the gates in time.

He strained against the numbing pain, moving his left hand inches by inches towards the field knife on his belt. He closed his hand on it, gritting his teeth as he tried to maintain a semblance of grasp. If it slipped out, he had not doubt that he would not be able to reach it again. There was no strength in his arm to throw it, let alone wield it with any potency. But he was going to go down fighting, the only way he knew how.

The roar of battle outside now drowned out the roar of the storm. Reimos felt the draw of the clash of steel and iron, and wished he could be there, instead of lying helpless and impotent.

Then the tower door shivered with a heavy blow. The bar and lock were both solid iron, but the door frame itself was only reinforced wood, and buckled inward, cracks spider webbing through the casing. There could be two forces outside, either the Shadowspawn coming to secure the gate, or Band defenders. As the frame buckled and bent, Tayren continued to stand by the winch, glazed eyes staring into space and head cocked to the side, as if he was listening to something distant.

Then just as the doorway was to be breeched, Tayren flowed into action. Picking up Reimos' gladius --his own was still buried in Sanak-- he darts towards the side of door, no doubt in ambush.

This was Reimos' chance, and he clumsily swung his knife as the traitor passes. It was a terrible strike, both excruciatingly slow and lacking power, but something seemed to guide his hand, grazing one of the Tayren's thighs before the dagger fell from his dull hands. It left only a shallow wound, but caused the man to flinch and stumble. At that moment, the frame finally splintered and the iron door tipped over. Tayren jerked aside, taking a glancing blow to his shoulder. But his element of surprise was lost.

The first soldier blocked his lunge, forcing Tayren backwards to allow the rest of the men to enter. Tayren gave a lurch as in surprise, his head twisting halfway as if to look at Reimos. And the sergeant knew why. He was fighting none other than his father, Jorj Reimos. The mixture of smoke and dust and the uncanny resemblance must have indeed shaken Tayren. But he recovered after the first stroke and fought like a man possessed, with wild and furious swings, intending to force them back, to stall them.

But Jorj was a wily and practical man. He caught one of the swings in his sword's guard, twisting and trapping the blades together. He pulled up, and two soldiers swung around and skewered Tayren through the torso. A kick to the abdomen and the turncoat stumbled back and crumpled to the floor.

The soldiers wasted no time on the various bodies in the floor. His father glanced down to see him at a quick scan of the room, his eyes flickering on Reimos' prone form for just a second, before returning to an appraisal of the room. Sprawled in his repose, Reimos had all the semblance of death.

"Get the winch! Two guards on door. Let's hope they got through the other tower." Jorj called, jumping over bodies as he rushed towards the gate-controller. Two soldiers quickly flanked the door, while the three others rushed to help Jorj with the winch.

There were more footsteps below them, and one of the guards called out, "Company. Hurry! Oh a--" The man twisted and fell, clutching frantically at what remained of his throat. The second guard slashed out without a thought, and was thrown hard across the room, his head cracking against the stone wall with a wet thump.

Darkness covered the doorway, resolving into the image of a Halfman and its Trollocs. It surged across the room with deadly liquid grace, but the soldiers within did not hesitate a second. A chair was already airborne, but the Fade smashed it aside in a shower of splinters. The two soldiers engaged, their swords swiping in time, but the Fade batted the blows away casually. Then it drew a second ebony blade in its left arm. It struck like a whirlwind, slicing through steel and flesh, leaving shreds of red fabric floating in the air, and a fine spray of crimson beaded onto Reimos' face. It stormed down upon Jorj Reimos, a giant prepared to crush an ant below its tread. It pushed aside the table from its path, and turned its eyeless visage towards its target.

The last man standing stood calmly, a look of utter acceptance in his face. He did not raise his blade to ward off the raised blades. His gaze was steady and his arm was steadier.

His sword arched out. The Fade struck.

As he was cut down, he slashed through the chains of the Gate winch. As his knees collapsed, the chains flashed up through the walls into the Wheel hub, disappearing. When his head rolled to a stop before his prostate son, there was a massive lurch and a shiver of the floor as the Inner Gate slammed down with an explosion that rattled the walls. Mortar rained from the ceiling and half-empty mugs shattered to the floor. Staring into the lifeless eyes of his father, Reimos struggled hard to not vomit, for in his state, he would be apt to choke on it like a drunk.

The Fade hissed its dismay at the receding chain. It jerked to the sound of further footsteps on the stairway, spitting out incomprehensible venom commands to the Trollocs in the room. It grasped the massive iron pulley where the chain had once hung and ripped the entire contraption from the walls, leaving a massive jagged hole. It tossed the pulley aside and slipped out into the storm, leaving its cadre of Trollocs behind.

The human reinforcement poured into the room, swamping the leaderless Spawns. The battle was fierce but short, and when the last Trolloc fell, the sound of battle below began to fade and recede. The Outer Gate rattled closed as its two Towers were cleared. The stem of Spawns had been cut and the battle was over.

But the level of activity in the room remain unabated. The wounded needed to be transported and healed, the dead needed to be covered and buried, and the missing found and counted. And there was the matter of how they were betrayed.

A soldier stood above Reimos, glancing down as if in debate. The sergeant forced his mouth to open, croaking, "Alive. I'm alive."

"Nurse!" The soldier called out, and suddenly a very familiar face was leaning over him.

"Stef!" Zira cried, kneeling over him. "What? What's wrong?"

"Poison," Reimos felt her hands clutching his tightly. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time. "I think. Temporarily." He could already feel the effects waning. Or perhaps it was only his mind playing tricks on him. The white numbness was now the gentle and soothing sensation of agonizing pain. But why would Tayren use such a mild poison? Could it be possible that even as a Darkfriend, he did not want to harm the friend he was betraying? Reimos remembered the trapped look in Tayren's eyes. Perhaps there was a part of him left. Part of him that wanted a way out.

As Zira helped him sit up, Reimos stared at the carnage unleashed, and could only imagine the aftermath of the battle at the Gates. Then he felt strong hands on his shoulders and he was propped up against the wall.

"My lady, if you will excuse us." A rumbling voice like a growling sandcat said, and a gnarled face was peering into Reimos' eyes. "If he's a survivor, we have some questions we need to ask."

"He's sick. Poisoned. What possible questions do you need to ask at this time of night?" Zira tried to move towards him, but were stopped gently by two guards.

"He is the only living witness of what happened tonight. We were betrayed and we will find the source before it is too late." The man stood up, and a black mantle and band revealed that he was a royal inspector.

"You can't possibly believe—"

"I will release him into you care, Madame, after we are done. My apologies in advance." The man turned on his heels, and Reimos was lifted lightly by two dark-mantled men. In his trance, he felt as if he was floating.

"Wait!" Zira's last cry slowly faded as they descended the tower stairs with him in tow.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	29. First Day

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: First Day**

Manetheren city disappeared in the veil of rain. The tall spires and victorious towers became faint shadows until they too fell away from vision. The night's events too were washed away by the steady downpour.

General Diest Arcanum looked forward and resumed his walk through the ankle-deep mud, already feeling the wetness seeping into his boots. He would have very much preferred to be riding at that point. But he'd also have preferred that the catapults arrived at the front on time, so he gritted his teeth and slogged on towards Captain Blake of the leading team.

"Captain! I'm going back to check on the cargo. For now, the fleet is at your disposal. On arrival, get all the teams set up." He yelled over the rain.

"Acknowledged." Blake gave a short nod, the water flowing around his visor, "Good luck."

Arcanum gave a thumbs up, and circled around the train of catapults, heading back to check on the status of the Special Armaments.

"Everything checks out?" He asked as soon as he saw Tirium.

"It took all of your influence and mine to get the Marshall General to release the iron we needed." Tirium patted the load on the nearby cart. "He doesn't seem too fond of you. If this plan of yours doesn't work out, we're in hot water."

"Aye, a Trolloc's pot." Arcanum replied dryly, "Did you get him to relinquish the other?"

"Yes, we got them all bunched and stacked ready back at the South Gate. After we unload the rods, we'll need to make several trips with these horses to transport them here. But from the looks of this weather, we're not going to be able to use them for a while."

"Alright, the front's near. I can trust you to distribute these?" Arcanum motioned forward to the affirmative. He quickly outdistanced the wagons to arrive at the catapults' dock zone. Pre-fabricated platforms were already in place, to give the cats elevation in the otherwise flat plain. Arcanum shook out his newest watch-glass' and took his first peek of the battle. The river Manetherendrelle stood between the two forces, swollen to almost double its size by the constant rain. Tendrils of Trollocs extended from the main body, attempting to ford the river, but most was swept away downriver.

"Map here!" Arcanum called out. This was as good a vantage point as any to command. Two soldiers hurried up with the makeshift post, staking the stand into the ground. A cured canvas relief of the battlefield was nailed securely onto the board. Arcanum ran his fingers over the smooth map, than procured two oil-soaked torches to provide sputtering light.

"Message podium up, sir!" Someone shouted to Arcanum. Arcanum raised a hand, signaling for a test flare. The signaler on top circled his fingers in acknowledgement, and raised his torch. It flickered under the assault of the rain, but it should be able to be seen by all the cat teams

"Sir, how goes the front?" Captain Blake yelled from atop one of the catapult platforms.

"Stalemate. This storm they cooked up is actually working against them." Brief flashes of fire and explosion sprinkled through the watch-glass. "The river is overflowing and they can't do anything until their storm lets up. Although the Dreadlords are taking a number on our men. How soon can we start firing back?"

"Right now! But we have no vision, so we'll need some ranges."

"Five waves of naphtha at maximum range then work your way to dry ordinance. Remember, better to overshoot than undershoot." Arcanum replied, waving to the message platform.

The signaler unfurled his torch again, raising it high in the air. Sparks of fire waved in reply, and there was a hum of catapults firing simultaneously. Glowing red missiles arched across the air, wavering in visibility through the rain. They curved almost beyond the horizon, slamming down to create a massive arch of fire, heedless of the waterlogged land.

"By Caldazar, these are beautiful engines." Arcanum watched the second wave flare across the sky. And a third. But this one was drowned out by the flash of blinding lightning.

A platform collapsed in fire, sparks dying on the smoldering heap of burnt timber and flesh. In a never-ending chain, lightning lashed the battlefield, burning a swathe of ashes across the landscape. But the men of Thunder Legion were disciplined and their shots never hesitated.

"What's going on, General?" Blake suddenly called.

Arcanum turned to see engineers climbing aboard the platforms. "Lightning rods. Solid iron tip and center, and twice the height of a man. If the Dreadlords intend to strike with lightning, then we will give them something to strike, in place of ourselves."

The rods were mounted and grounded quickly with chain anchors, and throughout the battlefield, similar contraptions were affixed to soak the Dreadlords' ire. Assuming that the Dreadlords did not have complete mastery over the storm, especially over such a large area.

"Metal attracts lightning, then? Fire!"

"Yes, at least from personal experience." Arcanum could see the tall spikes rising across all the battlefront, like the back of a bristling spinerat.

"Cut range! Then why are wearing steel helmets?" Blake shouted.

"Your sharp wit is wasted on us, captain!" Arcanum saw a messenger riding towards him. "Yeah?"

"The Trollocs are landing bridges across the river. The Marshall General wants you to take them out." The messenger steadied his panicking horse as another lightning crackled down near, coursing down one of the rods in the vicinity.

"That's too risky!" Arcanum replied, "Half of our misses would hit our own men."

"Then don't miss. The Dreadlords are raking through our front lines. If the Trollocs get a beachhead, we might not be able to stop their advance. This river is the only thing we've got! You know what you need to do!" The messenger saluted, and spurred his horse onwards.

Arcanum did not return the salute, "Blake, you see those bridges he was talking about?"

"Barely. Looks nasty. It's going to be tough shots."

"You think you can hit them?"

Blake replied with the firing crack of his catapult. Arcanum watched its descent, slamming squarely into one the dark log-bridges milling with Trollocs. It split its spine and the advancing Trollocs were dragged into the watery depths.

Other skilled cat teams followed suit, raining boulders into the river, snapping wood and bones alike, sending geysers of water nearly twenty feet into the air. However, one unlucky –and to Arcanum, inevitable-- shot missed its target range, bowling into the soldiers guarding the bank, killing half a dozen before they even realized they were dead. Arcanum grimaced, closing his eyes. Trollocs in front and catapults in the back. The foot soldiers' lives hung on the balance of a knife edge.

For a second Arcanum thought no one had seen it. Then, the catapults all became silent.

"Your posts, gentlemen!" Arcanum screamed, "They did their duties. You will too!"

There was a dangerous silence that even drowned out the crash of thunder. Arcanum breathed into the mist, holding his breath. Come on. This is not the time. Do not force this.

There was a single crack of a catapult. Another missile ascended, and the rest fired their acquiescence. Arcanum sighed as the staccato barking of catapults filled the air once more.

"Thank you, Blake." Arcanum spoke into the rain.

"Wasn't me." Was the curt and barking reply.

Arcanum turned his face upwards, letting the cool rain tap against his skin. Was the storm letting? The fierce storm had subsided to a hard drizzle, although the darkness still remained. He could see faint stars through the sheets of water. How fast the day has gone. The drizzle slowed to a gentle mist, before the storm clouds passed them lazily towards the west. The rumble of thunder was still ominous but distant.

"General!" Tirium appeared beside him, the torch in his hand lighting a face wet and brimming with exertion.

"Is everything prepared?" Arcanum greeted him.

"There have been some minor setbacks. Dampness issues, but I think ninety-eight percent are in working condition. An excellent yield, given the conditions."

"Good, I have a feeling. Be prepared to give the signal." Arcanum stared across the field of battle. Like fireflies, torches were lit against the approach of night, blooming until the entire riverbank ran with ember lights. Beyond the river, there were no torches, only crawling and seething darkness. "They are planning something. I do not know how long before the river falls to a fordable level, but I do know they have something planned. It's a waiting game. Until the river lowers, we can only simply gaze across the black sea and fear the weight of numbers closing on us. How did the lightning rod dispersal go?"

"We managed to seed most of the ranks. They took a heavy beating. So in other words, a complete success." Tirium peered down at the General's Map. "How recent is this?"

Before Arcanum could reply, he felt the soil shifting almost imperceptibly beneath his feet. Like a feeling of change of altitude felt deep inside the guts but almost unrealized by the eyes. He grabbed on to the wooden stand for balance, "You feel that?"

"Yeah, feels like the ground is changing shape, like something is under us." Tirium answered, "Something big."

At those words, images coalesced in Arcanum's minds, images of the ground belching forth worm-creatures like those they had fought at Bekkar. Images of their flanks crushed beneath the heel of earth demons. There was a stir in the legions, as each felt the rumbling of the ground, each imagining and remembering the possibilities.

"The river!" Arcanum shouted, as he stared through his water-glass. "It's the river. Something's happening there!" Right before his eyes, the river quivered in black sloshes, circling in a rippling maelstrom of froth and spray. A line appeared across the center of the river, a chasm that sunk below, pulling and draining the water down. "By Caldazar, they're forcing the water underneath!"

As soon as the water began its descent, the entire Horde front stormed into the water, heedless of the violent suction that had appeared. They splashed across fierce knee-high water, and slammed into the first fortification. The battle had been met.

The men were taken by surprise. First the river had seemed crazed and possessed, and now the Shadowspawn were on them, striking from the darkness into the sphere of their torches. The lines bulged and broke, as soldiers retreated back behind fieldworks and fieldworks. They could not be stopped, breaking and spilling over men and steel like the flood they had past. Arcanum could only stare across as the firelights were extinguished by the wave of blackness. This was night. This was not their element. They had to make it their elements or they will be broken.

"Tirium, how soon can you start them?" The lines were buckling and torches were falling dead by the droves.

"Now." The engineer nodded grimly, an Arbalest in hand. He dipped the bolt head in the torch until the steel point glowed orange, and raised it toward the sky. The bolt traced a gold-red path up into the sky, burning into ambers until it faded from the vision.

Arcanum stared up after it, into the dark water-logged sky, staring and waiting. Below them, the battle was joined between night and day, and the light was diminishing. Then from the horizon came a white shooting star that was no star at all. It streaked above the battleground, appearing to float there before its fire was extinguished.

"The tracer." Tirium whispered. "It is a good sign."

Five more glowing embers followed the first, their trails slicing glowing wounds through the darkness. Then they exploded in a glittering shower that for one moment lit the sky and earth. One thunderclap. Arcanum sensed the ponderous pause. Men and beast turned their faces skyward at the brilliant gems.

Then came the torrent of fire. The sky was split asunder by the white trails that assumed from the horizon. Light and sound bloomed into being, cinders descending like the boughs of a million-tendriled weeping willow. Four thousand tons of fireworks shrieked into the sky, enough to light the battlefield with a second sun. The black frothing river became a shimmering white glow.

Five Fire Blossoms sowed the sky as Thunder Howlers shook the fiber of every being, leaving vibrations scoring through Arcanum's nerves. There were Blue Lances, Angel Flares, Silver Skates, Droomalongs, Daggerfall, Sky Python, and even a Red Heart.

The explosion of the fireworks drummed a steady beat into their eardrums, a pulsating that stirred the blood and awakened the thousands of chemicals flowing through the bloodstream, charging the heart. This was the Feastday, their days of days. This was their element again, light and sound and fire, and the rippling sea of torches solidified and expanded outwards.

The Trolloc ranks fell immediately into panic and then rout under the assault. For Trollocs had never seen a fireworks show, and it must have seemed that the heaven was on fire, the embers appearing to fall right onto their very heads. They were blinded by the searing light, their cloak of safety torn away by the Engineering Corps' devastating attack.

If the world was a stage, then this battle was the centerpiece. Arcanum had been an avid fan of the theater in his youth, with a box seat in the Coratheren Philharmonics, but this spread before him was the drama that could never be matched. At first glance, the lightshow of the sky might be seen as the production, but it was only the orchestra in the deep of the pits, its music and vibrance only to serve the true tragedy and comedy. For below, men fought and died, their lives intermittent torches that burned ever so small and insignificant, but together made a stand so vast that it was a field of blaze. It was a terrible song and a terrible dance, but Arcanum was trapped in the stage, his eyes frozen to the choreography. This was what it was to be a god, to watch the rise and fall of mortals, the passion trapped and unleashed, the magnitude of infinity.

That was their stage. This was their orchestra. Arcanum let the wash of life sweep over him. Let the Great Alliance watch the skies and wonder at the maelstrom that centered over Manetheren. Let the world see that they are completely alive. Let them see that they would not go gently into that good night. No, for in that play, the finale yet waits.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	30. Second Day

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty: Second Day**

The sun's appearance across the eastern horizon did not see a halt or even a reduction in the fighting. Though the Trollocs had been pushed back across the river in the night's events, they had not given up, especially not when they had a bottomless source of bodies to draw from. And now, another sally surged into the front lines, a giant pseudopod extending from the amorphous Horde.

But the legionnaires did not draw back and absorb the hit, but braced and readied a wall of pikes. The Shadowspawn collided into the waiting spikes, driven on by their own bloodlust and their comrades. Tension rippled through the pike men as they stood their ground against the mounting pressure. It seemed for a moment the Trollocs would burst through, but with fast discipline, the soldiers held firm. Then down came the pikes and up the normal gladius, slicing heavily into the halted Trollocs.

"Enter the heavy cavalry." Cathon watched as the corps of armored horsemen cut a swathe through between the sortie and the main body, severing the arm of the Horde. The trapped and separated Trollocs were quickly destroyed by focus fire.

"Now repeat ten thousand times." The general chuckled humorlessly to himself. He rubbed at the General's Map with black Marking Oil. He would have killed for a map like this in the North. It was a commander's dreams. Terrain contours and engineers' legacy of precise surveying. He marked off more battalion changes with oil, making a few notes on shatter points—areas of weakness that could fracture entire formations under heavy pressure.

"General!" Austern tossed a leather pouch of latest troop movements down beside the Map stand. "I have some news. The King has called a temporary ceasefire."

"What, why?" Cathon fumbled for his watch-glass, "That's insanity. We'd only be standing still as we got hacked to pieces."

"They have shown the white flag for talks." By the way Austern stressed they, Cathon knew who he was talking about. "The King needs you and the other Marshall-Generals in his tent to await their representative."

The Horde indeed seemed to have drawn back reluctantly, and the Legions did not press at them. A small group of mounted creatures – humans! -- detached itself from the main Horde, riding boldly across the river, a flash of white raised at the fore. No arrows rose to greet them, and the men of Manetheren parted quickly before the envoys. One peek through the watch-glass told Cathon all he needed to know.

"I'll be back! See that any deceit on their part does not go unpunished." Cathon grimly proclaimed, then mounted his waiting horse with growing displeasure. He issues a few last orders to the line captains and set off at a canter towards the King's Headquarters. It was located near the front of the stationed men, against the expressed disapproval of the generals. But Aemon was adamant and there it stood, a low-hanging canvas framework with a simple banner of Caldazar staked in front.

Cathon handed off the reins of his horse and strolled up to the Heart Guards that patrolled its perimeter. They did not move to stop him, so he ducked his head under the tent flap, and set in.

It was a soldier's tent –perhaps larger than most—but still austere in design and utilitarian in purpose. There were no lavish tapestries or silk carpets. The walls were stabled instead in maps and pieces of parchments. There was a table in the middle, with one oil lamp propped in the center. The pile of papers that usually covered the table was now piled in a corner. King Aemon was conferring quietly with Generals Cysil and Donahin when he looked up to Cathon's approach.

"He has not arrived yet. Have a seat." Aemon motioned, and he obeyed, pulling up to the table. "Check your sword."

"I hardly think it is wise, my King." Cathon protested, eyeing the sheathed weapons placed squarely on the table.

"Check your sword." Aemon simply repeated. Cathon sighed, removed his sword and set it with the others.

The tent flap shifted softly, heralding a moment of tension. But a woman's face peered in, followed by a woman's body. Cathon sighed. It was only Airene. Certainly as an Advisor –their only Advisor-- she would be in attendance. He had not seen for some time, for she was often pulled thin across the battlefield. But, he could not but feel that she had been avoiding him. They locked gaze for a second as she entered, but she shifted her eyes away and avoided returning his glances. She took a seat by Cysil, right across from Cathon. She checked no weapons. For she was a weapon in herself. But was she weapon enough for the meeting?

There was the noise of men and horse outside. A tendril of cold air slithered in through the tent's opening, swirling across the closed space. A man ducked in gracefully, his eyes shifting to adjust to the light. He was a tall man with smooth dark hair pulled behind in a warrior's tail. His eyes were a commander's eyes, dark pools that could see what was there and what could be used. He was a man that cannot be called anything less than handsome and charismatic.

Cathon could not prevent the reaction he felt. His mouth drew back in, and his teeth were clenched tight in preventing himself from launching himself violently at the beast that had entered.

"Hello, gentlemen. Mind if I take a seat?" The man opened his mouth to reveal straight, white teeth. Perfect white teeth that clicked together like the sound of a steel trap closing on its prey. Taking the silence as an affirmative, the Dark One's emissary took his seat, his eyes appearing to wink.

"It is like a meeting of old friends, is it not?" He smiled, his eyes roaming across them. He met Cathon's hatred with a look of amusement, and he lounged back as if it was his own tent, and they were the visitors. "Congratulations, Generals. Your astuteness and flexibility astounds me. Quite a magnificent display yesterday, I do confess. But then, again, what is the blood of Manetheren but that? I admit that I take a little pride in the fight you're putting up against the inevitable. Lord of Manetheren to fellow Lords, of course." He gave his sly wink.

"You are nothing of Manetheren, Vanigan." Cathon slammed the table with a fist, nearly upsetting the lamp. But he became silent at a look from Aemon.

"Ah, Lawe, is this the way you treat the one who taught you all you know?" Piotor Vanigan leaned forward as if divulging a valuable secret, "Perhaps a little too well."

"What is it you are here to say?" Aemon interrupted.

"You have fought well. But good leaders know when to cut their losses. My terms are simple. If you will yield to me, one who was once a First Lord of Manetheren, your land and people will be spared, and the armies of the Great Lord will be withdrawn from your soil. Your people can live in peace and harmony. As long as they raise no hand against the standard of Ba'alazamon. " His words were smooth and mesmerizing.

"A fair bargain." Cathon interjected, "If we were willing to sell our soul. Like you."

The look on Vanigan's face was almost hurt. "Perhaps if circumstances were different, Lawe, our places would be switched. I did not sell my soul. I give my loyalty freely to those whom I serve."

"You cannot expect us to actually accept your offer." Aemon pronounced, "You know we would never accept such. Anything less than unconditional surrender from you."

"I understand." His eyes narrowed. "But remember that I gave you a choice. Something that I was denied. You created me and think me a monster. But I gave you the opportunity to choose."

"You created yourself." Cathon exclaimed. "All your crimes and betrayals."

"You forced me on that path with your bitter persecution. And why? Because I am a Male Channeler! The way I was born. Do you strip the titles and deeds of the blind or exile the crippled? You fear those who have power, who could wield it beyond what you could comprehend. Your damned hypocrites!" He spat the last word.

"You will leave now." Aemon ignored the outburst.

"So be it. Death you have chosen. Death I will grant." Vanigan stood, a storm growing in his eyes, his visage twisted. He waved his hand, and a hurricane wind poured into the tent, scattering papers and buffeting the seated generals. The tent was ripped instantly from its lines, shredded to pieces and scattered into the sky. His voice exploded like a rush of air, "Know that you are utterly alone in this pathetic stand. No Covenant army readies to your aid. The Tar Valon whore has played you to your doom."

Cathon sprang for his blade, catching the hilt. Vanigan stabbed down with blinding speed and an obsidian dagger trapped the general's arm to the desk by the sleeve. "Oops, I seem to have forgotten to check my weapon."

Then the Dreadlord turned into the circle of Ashenderai spear points. He opened his lips in a sneer, "Oh please." He pushed aside the two spears at his throat and strolled casually to his waiting horse. The Heart Guard's spears followed his exit until he leaped onto his pure white steed. He stared back then he and his men rode away.

"Don't touch the dagger." Airene warned, but Cathon did anyways, tapping carefully at the hilt with a finger. His hand flinched back at the pain coursing up the through his arm like a lance of lightning. He twisted a handkerchief around the hilt and plucked up it by the corner. It was a one-piece dagger with hilt and blade forged of the same lightless material. There was a small red etch on the blade, a small red hand. He slid it onto his belt. "I'll be sure to return to this."

"He is just as I remembered." Aemon sighed warily, "But I expected it."

"He's unraveled." Cysil stood up, "He needs a quick end here. We held him for too long, and he has never had patience. Perhaps he is afraid of what could happen to his army if he is still trapped here in two days."

"He denied the Covenant Army." Cathon re-belted his sword.

"Bluff." Aemon stared into the distance. No one cared to think of the alternative. Aes Sedai cannot lie. An Aes Sedai's promise is reality.

Cathon watched Airene depart, then murmured his own dismissal, hurrying after her.

"We need to talk." He said as he caught up.

"So that was him. The infamous Piotor Vanigan." She halted and turned to him.

"The Traitor, yes." Cathon studied her eyes for a flicker of any emotion. "A First Lord of Manetheren. My teacher and one of Manetheren's greatest heroes. Now High Dreadlord and our greatest shame."

"In his mind lies madness of the Taint. But in madness truth. I touched his mind. He is an angry man, obsessed with past wrongs." She sighed. "He is proud and cast no shields. I know what he knows. And perhaps that's what he wanted."

"That's good. You can tell me all he has planned. We can—"

"Madness poisons and so can the truth. Both have the power to kill. We digress. You are not here to talk about Vanigan."

"You said you wanted time to think."

"Yes, and my mind is clear on what I must saw, of which we both know. There is no future down that path. We are very much the same, General. We have our walls. We cannot live without them. I will not pretend that there is nothing between us. But, I trust in your pragmatism. Anything else?" Airene crossed her arms.

It was all Cathon could do to say, "As my Lady wills."

She stared hard at him, then a soft smile graced her lips. Perhaps with a trace of relief, as if the entire matter was solved.

But it was not. As she turned to leave, Cathon stood pondering whether to pursue the subject. But, he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. It was Warder, watching her departing back.

"Let it lie. Just my advice." The stoic man spoke more words than Cathon had ever heard him utter before. Cathon studied the shadow within the helmet that was Warder. Who was this man that stood ever in Airene's shadows. What has he learned and seen of the inner mettle of the woman that held his heart in a lock. The voice and demeanor was familiar, utterly familiar.

"Who are you?"

Warder was silent, then he lifted the helmet from his head. It was the face of the King, down to the eyes that always shined in thought and knowledge. But older and the hair was grayer.

"Aemon?" Cathon mouthed in astonishment.

"No." The helmet came down once more. "But he bears my name."

"Prince Caar? Caar One-Hand?" Cathon whispered incredulously. Prince Caar was father to the High King Aemon Al'Caar. But he was dead. Slain in Mafal Dadaranell by Rhea. This was impossible. The dead can not rise from their graves.

Warder tapped his right gauntlet. It made a hollow sound; there was no hand within. "The tale is not for you, Lawe Cathon. Never speak again of that name or title. I have paid a harsh price for existence. None must know I live and am here. Especially not my son. You and he are the only one who have seen me, though you were but babes. Aemon already suspects me, even when I am armored as such."

"Why are you here—my Lord. Why are you her warder?"

"She has no warder. He died in the north to my hands. I have returned because it is imperative that I do. Listen to her. She is a Foreteller, rarest of the rarest of Aes Sedai, able to view flashes of the great Pattern of Ages. You have heard her foretellings, though you may not have believed it to be so. I am here because she knew I was to come. Forces have been working towards this moment for a very long time, and I am just as much a pawn as you. She can see much, but you cannot press her. The slightest change will destroy what she has worked long for. And I am here for the fate I must meet and to touch my soil once more.

"I have abdicated the throne and its trappings, but I ask you to heed my command. Let this matter with Airene die now. She and you have futures uncrossed. Do your job and she will do hers. And perhaps all will not be for naught." Then Caar was gone with a flutter of his borrowed color-shifting cloak, leaving the general silenced.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	31. Third Day

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty-One: Third Day**

Reimos woke up with a splitting headache, stumbling to his bare feet and shaking away the daze. He eyed the unfamiliar surrounding in confusion, and tried to piece together the events of last night, but couldn't pierce the cloud. He touched the red linens he had cast away and the soft lacy pillow. His eyes lit upon the only other piece of furniture in the chamber, a dark mahogany bureau. He padded over and found his clothes and cloak neatly folded on its surface. There was a small clay vase with the slightly wilting Gilded Crowns that he had picked the other day. There was a small palm-sized mirror framed in bronze. And then there was a stack of folded yellow-edged letters bound in a faded blue ribbon, and weighted with a small medal. With a finger, Reimos traced the cold iron contour of the Carmine Cross. It was only issued posthumously.

The door opened and Zira Coutir entered with a small tray, containing a small steel cup and a moist cloth. She swept her gaze from the empty bed to his location by the bureau.

"I did not expect you to wake so soon." She set her tray on the edge of the bed. "When they released you last night, you could barely walk on your own feet. Wholly unnecessary giving your condition."

"But it was necessary." Reimos slipped on his shirt, wincing slightly at the spark of pain in his nerves. "I was the only survivor. Or so they told me. I was the only witness. And, by default, the only remaining suspect."

"Do you remember what they asked you last night? Did they do anything to you?"

Reimos closed his eyes, and felt images slowly washing through his mind like sand in a sieve. They were disjointed memories blending together in his poison-addled mind. He remembered struggling to speak and make his voice heard, questions asked but which he could not answer. At first, he had struggled whether to reveal Tayren's identity. Tayren still had family in Manetheren—the discovery of his betrayal would ruin his mother and sister. But he must've told them, or else they would not have let him free.

As Reimos sat down on the bed to pull up his trousers, Zira offered him the cup she had brought, "My own mix. It'll help you flush the toxin from your system."

He inhaled the soft floral steam and took a sip. It was slightly bitter but it opened his lungs and warmth slowly seeped through his body. He downed the cup, mumbling "Could use a shot of ale."

"One'd think you would learn a lesson already from last night." Zira replied disapprovingly.

"I guess I'm just a slow learner." Reimos sat down on the bed beside Zira. "You know I have to go."

Zira did not reply. Reimos sighed and motioned at the dresser, "Who was he? You said I reminded you of someone."

"He was my brother. Confident and proud, the perfect defender of nationalism." Zira bit her lips. "When the call came for volunteers, he immediately replied. He was in Caar's Company, like your Eldrene's Company. The Lost Company. Yes, I see you recognize the name. They were the ones that the bastard led into the Forest of Death. One thousand men dead because of the unfounded loyalty in their cause and leader." She was as bitter as Reimos had ever seen her, and her words poured forth in a ragged pattern. "Oh, I know what he would say. 'I am a soldier and death is my calling,' he would say. I've heard your soldier's creed. I've heard him repeat it to me as I have heard you. You two are so damn alike. You would've liked each other." Her words were sobs, and she buried her face in his shoulders. He held her there, and she grew quiet. And there they stayed for a moment frozen in time.

Finally she raised her head and sighed, "You're going to go." It was not a question.

He removed his mother's ring from his and slipped it into her hands. "I'll be back. Hold this for me. When we have won, I will return."

"Just stay for a little bit." She pleaded, and he acquiesced.

It was late afternoon when he found a ride out towards the front. Walking through the mud and sheet of rain, his gear slung over his shoulder, he had come upon a convoy of loaded horse-drawn wagons at the foregate. A wagoneer, glancing at his uniform, shouted, "Need a lift, son?"

Nodding, Reimos took a seat on the back of the wagon, pushing his waterlogged cloak to the side, his back leaning against the canvas-tied cargo. He made a fold in the canvas to block some of the rain from his head, and watched as the city of Manetheren dwindle. He did not think about where he was living. He did not think about where he was going.

The trip was uneventful. The rain continued unabated, and occasionally, the farrier enlisted Reimos' aid in pushing the cart out of particularly deep mudholes. The cart finally eased to a stop at a point of hectic activity, where carts dumped their containers and immediately turned around.

After reporting to the controller pit and a thirty minute hike, Reimos slid down the muddy incline to his squad's staging area. Muddy faces turned to watch his arrival. This was the moment of truth. Reimos read their looks. Some relief, some skepticism, but mostly indecision. There was no doubt that they had been apprised of at least basic details of the night.

"Good to have you back, sarge." Cordin ended the awkward silence. There was grunts and mumbles in reply, and claps on his back. There was no doubt there were some reservations, but for all purposes, he was a soldier returning back into the fold, with nothing changed.

He dove back into his original life with vigor, pouring all of his attentions to the constant forays of the Horde. There were Trollocs to kill, and after that, more Trollocs to kill. It was almost a relief to be occupied by the mundane. He only had to think about what he had to do, and not about what the future hold. The future be damned. Thinking about what could be can get a man killed.

Two days and two nights he passed in the embankment. Three days they had to hold until the reinforcement arrived, and those three days Reimos faithfully held. It was thus that Reimos greeted the third day, leaning warily against the mud embankment. He stared across the fieldworks, hastily patched every hour. There is nothing like seeing the end of the marathon or poetically, the rainbow after the storm and hail. The smell of success, the belief that in the end, the struggles were all worth it.

There was an aura of eerie silence, save the wet splash of the river lapping rhythmically against the bank. Reimos slept lightly to the soothing lullaby, closing his eyes more than being in actual sleep. But he knew the drill. Sleep was a valuable commodity, to be stolen in shifts and minutes. And right now was a good a time as any. The forays across the river had been dwindling, tapering off after the ceasefire the previous day. Reimos had seen their emissaries arriving across the river, a man riding a pure white stallion leading the small human envoy, shaking foam off and trotting confidently through the hostile soldiers as if he belonged there. Though Reimos had never seen that man before, he knew he hated him. But, there was a quiet peace that stirred gently in the ceasefire, until the emissaries stormed through the ranks and across the river in a fury, and sparking forth the battle once more, unabated through the night.

Reimos shifted in his uncomfortable position, feeling the soreness of his cramped muscles in each movement. He peered across the softly steaming water, but there was only darkness. A slowly twisting darkness like a black pit of poisonous serpents. There would be a battle this day. The largest battle perhaps of the Trolloc Wars. There would be no alternative, no turning back. They had to crush the Horde quickly with the promised reinforcements from the White Tower. The hammer of the Covenant and the anvil of Manetheren. But, Reimos certainly didn't look forward to it. Battles were won and bought, and there was only one currency. The only currency accepted universally.

He dug a half-eaten ration piece from his pouch – his last – and chewed carefully on the stale hardtack. The lingering effects of the poison still lingered in his systems, and his gums and teeth were more tender than usual. There was a slight tremor in his hand and a subtle stiffness in his joints.

The supply sergeant passed, dropping the provisions of the day, and finally tossing him a large crossbow-like piece, the arbalest. Reimos examined the item, and then proffered it to the man Hawk, known for his piercing nose and the self-proclaimed archery expert of the squad.

"Can you handle an arbie, birdie?"

"I reckon so. About time they passed these monsters out to the real men."

Reimos just nodded, fingering the scavenged shield strapped to his mutilated arm and the daggers on his belt. He knew what was coming. He could hear the reverie and the horsebeats. He made his way to each soldier, nudging the sleepers awake with his feet. But, most were awake. They were prepared and waiting. It was the third day.

A banner crested from the north, followed by a second, and a third. The highest was the Red Hand, the second was fire-winged Caldazar, and the third was Aemon's Wolfhead. Missing was the Shield of the Covenant. If all went as planned, they would soon be seeing the rimsteel Shield waving from the south.

The bannered group weaved through the narrow gap-paths in the fieldworks on their way to the river. They passed only a few yards from where Reimos and his squad stood watching. In front were four harsh Heart Guards, ashenderai cocked stiffly over their shoulder, their blazing eyes skimming across the milling soldiers. Three horsemen, drawn from each of the three grand-legions, carried the tall banners, lances and swords locked in their carriages.

Then came the man who was King. Accoutered in a full burnished steel armor, he rode proudly on his black chain-donninged charger. The Red Hand grazed his cloak and mantle, but his face was bare, and his hair bound in a warrior's knot. His steeled hands rested calmly on ebony Alcride's reins. Sanction slept in its scabbard, its charmed hilt seemed to wink from the base of Aemon's belt. The King's steady gaze met the eyes of his subjects and his eyes were sad and brooding, knowing that many of those standing now will be dead at the end of the day and was seeking a way out. Reimos had seen Aemon a few times in battle the past days. He was a king who loved peace, but a king taught to war. To his left rode the Marshall General Cathon in sign of deference.

Behind them followed six young women clad in simple white riding dresses on auburn mares. Upon the center of their garb was a simple red rose and each wore a scarlet glove on the left hand. They did not wear any obvious weapons and did not seem to serve any overt purpose. Reimos did not recognize them at first, but their sigil eventually jogged his memory. He had seen them mostly in the company of Queen Eldrene, but did not understand why her handmaidens now accompanied the King. Twenty more Heart Guards brought up the flank.

They came to a stop before the river, the Heart Guards fanned out in front of the King, as if to protect him from the soldiers. The handmaidens stood behind the King, as if creating a shield between him and the river. Aemon touched something on his chest and then Sanction, seemingly nodding to himself. There was silence. Even the catapults had stopped.

"Hear me." Arcanum began in an oddly muted voice, but somehow Reimos could hear the words as if the King's lips were right near his ears. From the attention among all the soldiery, the same applied to all. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that all the Grand-Legions could hear clearly every single word that came from their King.

"Hear me, men of Manetheren. You know what is to come. I know what is to come. Before I left our city, the Queen asked me to relay a message to you men, and I will keep that promise."

He paused. "To the Husbands. To the sons and the fathers. To the brothers. To those who leave their homes to protect them. To those who are forced to war to keep the peace. We know your sacrifices. We know the price. Though we are never glad nor do we fully face the choices, we understand and we wait."

Hails of rocks slammed into the opposite shore pounding at the opposition. It did not seem possible that the artillery could continue such a bombardment, but they succeeded. Reimos knew instinctively its purpose. To drive any Trolloc from the waterfront to make landing successful. King Aemon continued unabated and undisturbed by the rain of rocks tearing asunder the opposite shore.

"I could sing of valor or speak of glory and honor, but there are bards and minstrels in the world enough for purple prose, and we have fed you words enough to last you life times. No, instead, I will do none before me have done.

"I apologize. We apologize. You have given up everything, from birth to death for the sword, for the simple reward that should by birthright belong to you. I apologize for all the cruelties of fate and men subjected on you, and hope that all hear in this letter my sincerity. I am so sorry. For the duties and responsibilities forced upon you. For the lack of choice we have given you. We sit upon the balancing point, the teetering edge between forces greater than we can comprehend. You should not be here. None of you belong here. For this I apologize. And apologies are empty without amends.

"Hear this all, hear this well. You are dismissed from service of Manetheren. Bondsmen and liegemen, I have released you from your word and promise. Hence forth, you are all free. So speak I, the Queen of Manetheren, and through the voice of the High King. None of you are tied here to the approaching battle, and can leave if you desire. I give you your choice and your own destiny. Serve and lead yourself. I am only sad that this has come too late, but it has come nonetheless. For a late apology is still an apology.

"We are sorry. We are truly sorry. Forgive us.

"From the wives. From the daughters and the mothers. From the sisters and the widows. From Eldrene."

Aemon closed the letter, "Such is the word of Ellisende. And her word are…mine."

Reimos blinked, closing his slack mouth. He had heard the words of the King, but in his mind's eyes, he saw the voice of Eldrene, Zira, and even his mother. He kneeled, wondering why the words had stirred powerful emotions within him. His eyes blurred. He had not cried when his father had departed in his youth. He had not cried when his mother was laid to rest. He had not cried when he had lost his arm and hand. But, now he felt tears clutching at the edge of lids. A simple apology had unraveled a closed trove of resentment that he had not even realized he had nurtured.

"None are bound fourth to our task. Your choice is your own, free men of Manetheren. If this is not your choice, leave without shame or fear, for the choice is yours." Aemon's words were now his own. "But if you will stay, then you will earn my eternal gratitude. The Rose of the Sun has given to you your birthright to choose."

Reimos heard Zira's voice in his mind's eye, pleading for him to leave with her. And he could now. Duty had been freed from his shoulders, and the Queen had given him closure. He could return to the city, lift a surprised Zira into his arms, and carry her away from here. Into a future. Two children and a puppy. A farm and a garden filled with gilded crowns. And a sword rusting over the mantle, never to be used. It was his choice to make.

Reimos stumbled and kneeled in the mud, and dug his sword tip into the soft earth before him. And as if in communion, other soldiers fell in place.

"I am a free man of Manetheren, and I make this choice of my own will." His voice came fast and furious, digging into the wind like a hatchet, to blend with thousands of murmurs into a roar. "To the Last Defense of Manetheren will I stand, and in my hand stands the sword. I wear Manetheren on my back, and I will defend her glory to my last breath. From the blood of Arad to the blood that flows within me, I am a soldier and death is my calling."

"Stand forth then, sons of Manetheren, upon your own feet," King Aemon replied.

Reimos rose, and felt the familiar weight upon his shoulders. And all around him, the rest stood in union. The thunder of catapults scattered to a silence, leaving the opposite shore immersed in a dark dust cloud akin to the mouth of Thakan'dar.

"Let us fight then. For Manetheren." The King tucked the letter into his saddle. He turned his horse, and the Heart Guard split around him. He drew the legendary greatsword Sanction, and charged into the brackish river.

"Carai an Manetheren! Carai an Ellisende!" The words came into Reimos' mouth and he sprang forward. Men skidded down the slope, into the frothing water. King Aemon cut through the river as the wedge-point, the Heart-Guard easily keeping with his steed. Behind rode the Queen's Handmaidens and the Generals, and then the flood of Three Grand-Legions of men now madly in love with their queen.

Reimos forded hard through the water, but the footing was slippery. The waterbed was piled with layers of Trolloc corpses that had expired over the two days, and their bloated bodies trapped his boots at every step. The dark green-black water seeped into his clothes, sucking noisily into his boots. Then, they reached hard traction, and they were upon the shore in a sweep.

Reimos pulled his blade and clambered up the dusty incline. Debris from the bombardment crunched under his feet. A hairy arm broke free from a pile of wreckage, closing around the sergeant's ankle. With a smooth motion, Reimos sliced down with his sword and the hand fell free. They broke through the choking dust into the waiting ranks of braced Trollocs.

Aemon was the first into the shadowspawn, his greatsword cutting down droves of defenders with each swing, until they fell back away from his fury. The Heart Guard rained death at his flank, their deadly skills and Ashenderai's long range kept back any attacks on his flanks. The handmaiden's rode through the holes in the defense, still unarmed. The mixed cavalry and infantry charged was not far behind.

"Together now. Pick your targets." He yelled to his squad, and he braced his sword with his handless arm, aiming for a goat-faced Trolloc directly in front. He ducked under its scythe, and jammed his sword into its chest. He locked his shoulder with the Trolloc's abdomen and heaved with all his strength. The Trolloc toppled back, smothering the swings of its comrades behind him. Reimos clambered over the fallen Trolloc, and slashed into the unprepared shadowspawn behind him. His squad slammed through beside him and began to carve their path into its heart.

Reimos' breaths came in exhausted cough and his arm strained from the stress of impacts. But, his eyes were clear and no tension ran boiling through his nerves. He was calmer than he had ever been. He was no longer fighting because he was supposed to. He was fighting because he chose to.

They fought onto the ruins of what once must have been a bustling town at the outskirt of great Manetheren. The cobblestone avenues where merchants and hawkers shouted and mothers shopped for bargains were now covered with struggling men and beasts. The houses where generations had dwelled were gutted and belched forth slew of enemies.

A sudden shadow sparked Reimos' instincts, and he ducked aside, narrowly dodging a huge slab of marble, slamming into the ranks. He rolled, his sword gripped tight in hand, and immediately focused on the rooftop of what must have been the mayor's residence. Another projectile departed from the roof, drilling into the ranks.

"With me." Reimos waved his sword. He cut his way towards the building, meeting the guarding Trolloc with a blow to the face from his shield, snapping its head back, and following with a sword to the exposed throat.. "Breech and secure." He motioned, and switched his sword for a dagger. Two soldiers kicked in the door, sending the waiting Trolloc stumbling back from the force. Reimos sent his dagger through and into the throat of the shadowspawn. The door guards were in first, and then the rest of the squad streamed through, with Reimos at the back, a second dagger in hand.

"Stairs." In a wedge formation, they sliced through the milling Trollocs, towards the circular stairway halfway down the hall. A hulking beast blocked the way, an ugly spiked mace gripped in its massive grip. Reimos wasted no time placing his dagger between its red-flamed eyes. The beast toppled backwards, its massive bulk decimating the railing and the already fire-gutted foundation. The stairway crashed in a cloud of dust and debris.

The squad formed around the opening, keeping the Trollocs back. Reimos bent his knee, and begin to boost soldiers up through the hole. As the men begin to disappear into the ceiling, the Trollocs became more bold, until four soldiers remained, fighting embittered.

"Now!" A voice came from above.

Reimos jumped, lifting his arms up, and feeling support from above, as he was pulled up. A lunging Trolloc was greeted with a sharp kick to the chin. Then he was through the hole and into the second floor. Only a few Trolloc bodies littered the floor. Apparently, the shadowspawn were not as concentrated on the second floor.

"Quick, to the roof before they use the other stairs." Reimos lead the way, eyes blazing from side to side. He still had one dagger left, and the squad was in good shape. When they came within sight of the stairs, they found it guarded by a Trolloc sentinel. Before it could raise alarm, it was silenced by Reimos' last dagger in his throat. Reimos motioned them to a stop around the staircase, and retrieved his dagger and crept up towards the roof. He peeked through, scanned quickly, and ducked back down.

Reimos pointed at the ceiling three times with three fingers. Then he was through, blade bared, his squad close behind. Three onager crews were blasting away from the rooftop, oblivious to the silent death from below. Reimos came behind the closest Trolloc and slashed its throat with a jerk. Around him were more silent thumps, as the rest of the squad did their work.

"Guard the stairs." Reimos pointed to three soldiers and then turned to Hawk. "Can you get them to work?"

"Not with an untrained crew." He replied.

Reimos leaned over the roof. The battle was still fierce in the road, with the Band making headway with the Horde's artillery silenced. He pointed towards the three onagers, "Then we need to d--."

"Fade!" A doorguard called.

"Not this again." Reimos stared at the doorway. The three guards fell back in the face of the leading Halfman. One soldier was too slow or too exhausted, and a blow that should've been glancing became fatal. A second soldier found his aim true, stabbing solidly into the Fade's chest, but was flung away to slide nearly off the ceiling, clutching the edge. The third retreated hastily back.

The Halfman charged forward, but jerked to the side, a long Arbalest bolt through the chest trapping him to the side of a chimney. Three more bolts pinned the fade's arm and legs to the wall. Reimos did not hesitate, moving forward upon the temporarily disabled Fade. He cut away the Fade's armed hand and plucked up the gleaming black sword. It was like touching pure grease. Reimos could feel dark malevolence seeping into his skin, and tossed the sword away from the spawn's reach. The Fade writhed and gnashed, then fell silent where it was trapped. But it was still much alive, its eyes following Reimos with pure venom. The sergeant tossed the sword aside with disgust and re-wielded his own clean steel.

"Good shot, Hawk." Reimos commanded, "We've got us a prisoner, boys."

"Company approaching." The last doorguard called, "Red cloaks. Looks like we took the building."

"Leave the Fade to them. We have more rooftops to clear." Reimos leaped from the edge of the roof, landing on the top of another infested rooftop, populated by the rare Trolloc archers. His squad followed suit, and they cut down the unprepared archers with ease.

The roof shivered underneath their feet, nearly tumbling Reimos off the edge.

"What the hell was that?" Reimos was answered by the boom of a fireball burning through the street, plowing a blackened furrow behind it, bowling aside men.

Cordin pointed to one of the few intact towers in the town. "It came from there. Top floor"

"Hawk. How many bolts in the arbie?"

"One."

"Make it count."

"I'm on it. " Hawk unlimbered his arbie, and propped it against his arm and shoulder. A second fireball spewed from the tower, spraying down upon the battle on human and Trolloc alike.

The ground shivered, and Reimos sprung around to see Trollocs landing from another roof adjacent to theirs. His squad immediately reacted, diving into the newly arrived shadowspawn.

"Keep them off Hawk." Reimos shouted, intercepting a Trolloc's advance.

"I think he spotted me." Hawk groaned. A heavy explosion rocked the building as a firewall sprayed off its wall, barely missing the roof.

"Shoot now!" Reimos slammed the Trolloc in his face with his hilt, and kicked him off the edge. He crouched to dodge the lunge of a second one, and flipped it off after its brethren. He glanced around to see the flash of a fireball burning towards him. He dove, grabbing Hawk, and they tumbled away under a ledge. He felt the crisp of flames just barely missing his back in mid-air.

"I got him." Hawk exclaimed as he picked himself up, obviously to his near-miss. "One down, six to go."

The fireball had left a trail of embers, but the squad were mostly intact, and mopping up the rest of the Trolloc. Below them, the Band was forcing through the streets, house by house. There was a boom of onagers firing into the Trolloc ranks as crews began working the captured machines, which should last them until the Thunderlord could ferry his catapults across the river.

"They knew we would come today. No Trolloc would have prepared these plans and onagers on rooftops." Reimos scanned the battle.

"Reinforcements." Hawk called, drawing the sergeant's attention to soldiers appearing from around the corner of stairwell. "We've got this all cleared."

Reimos opened his mouth to greet them, when he felt uneasiness at their approach, at their carry. Then, their leader raised it bow, and its arrow took Hawk through the throat.

The next arrow blazed through the spot Reimos was standing, but the sergeant had already dodged to a roll. Arrows streamed across the rooftop, taking a quarter of his squad down. Then the assailants drew swords—Manetheren gladius—and smashed into the surprised men.

Reimos raised his blade in time to ward away the first onslaught. The attacker was unquestionably a man. He looked, dressed, and fought like a soldier of the Band of Red Hand, and his eyes stared back with sentience.

"Why are you doing this?" Reimos pressed, staring into the eyes, desperately seeking answers. "Why are you fighting us?"

There was no hate or bloodlust in the man's eyes, as there would have been for a Trolloc. Instead there was the grim determination of a soldier. From close up in melee, Reimos saw that the man's accoutrement was not entirely identical to his. Upon his cloak was the Red Hand, but within rested a black flame as if it was scorched there.

Reimos was forced back by the man's ferocity. He could not kill the man. Not simply because he wasn't trained for the task, but that his mind wouldn't let him. Reimos was a soldier—he was not supposed to be fighting men. But as he was slowly pushed towards the edge, his sense of survival over-ruled his conscience. He blocked an ill-prepared thrust, and slashed at the arm to disable him. But the man stumbled, and the sword sunk through the chest.

"No!" Reimos stared at the sword in the man's chest. He did not meant to kill him. The man collapsed, slipping from the blade. His eyes still stared back, then his lips moved, and spoke.

"We have returned." His accent was unmistakably one that belonged to Manetheren. Then he died.

Reimos stared confusedly at the rooftop. Around him were the fallen of Manetheren, where brothers had slain brothers. But why? His squad had won, but only half were still standing. The rest had fallen in surprise and shock.

"Sir, what happened here?" Cordin asked, his shoulders shaking as he stared down at the man he was forced to kill.

Reimos kneeled, staring at the face of the man he had murdered. He was about the same age as Reimos, and showed the same ravages of war. It was like gazing into a mirror, or perhaps the future. His hand touched the cloak, his fingers running across the Red Hand and the Black Flame, then to the lapel. A tiny sigil rested there unique to every company of the Band. Reimos recognized it.

"Caar's Company." Reimos uttered. Like its namesake, Caar's Company had been ingrained into the lore and legacy of Manetheren, and its tragedy. "Apparently, they were not lost in the Forest of Death after all."

"What are you saying, sir?"

Reimos could not tell whether to cry or laugh. "He was the one who lead them into the Forest of Death. We had thought he had betrayed the company into a trap. But we never found the bodies." He gestured at the bodies littering the rooftop. "But the dead walk once more. They went willingly with him."

"Who?"

"Vanigan. Piotor Vanigan the traitor. And the Lost Company has returned with him." Reimos shook his head, and turned the body, seeking for what he knew must be there. He pulled the cloak from the corpse, and turned it to the inside. A soldier always wrote his name upon the inside fold, so he could be identified if his body was too mutilated by battle or spawn.

It was there in bold black blood-ink. Sandric Coutir it spelt in chicken scrawl, but there was no doubt to what it read. No doubt to what Reimos had just done. The sergeant leaned over, heaving the emptiness of his stomach. He had eaten nothing in days, and what came forth burnt his throat and left his eyes stinging. He crawled to the edge of the rooftop where he stared helplessly at the disarray in the Band.

The Lost Company were unleashed upon the soldiers of Manetheren, and had virtually destroyed the front lines in their attack. They had flooded the rooftops and their arrows were stitching death through the ranks.

"We're being eviscerated down there." Reimos whispered to himself. He crawled back to the body, staring into its familiar eyes and finally closed them.

"Sir, we need to do something." Cordin called. He raced towards the edge.

"No, you'll die!" Reimos' blurry eyes followed the soldiers' jump down into the battle. He stumbled to his feet. "Cordin!" The sergeant's hand found his sword, and he leaped down after the young recruit.

He landed in a knot of Vanigan's soldiers, hitting the ground hard but with no injury. He flashed his sword through the midst of red, felling traitors after another. He was like a man possessed, his swords raining death among the men. His sword breezed through the soft flesh. It was not like the flesh of a Trolloc, hard and unyielding. Men were weaker, kept alive only by a thin shell. But each man he slayed drew pain in his own mind.

He struck drunkenly at another soldier, who blocked his blow, and shouted, "It's me! Sarge, it's me!"

Reimos shook his head, and stared into Cordin's eyes. Then he felt hands seizing his shoulders, and shaking him slightly. He glanced around at the familiar faces of his squad. He blinked his eyes, "I'm alright. Let me go. Let me go, damnit."

He tore away, and glanced at the dead men at his feet. At the dead men all around.

"We have to get back." Cordin said, "Sarge, you fought like a demon. But we can't hold here much longer."

"I was a demon." Agony seized his lips. "But you're right." Caar's Company had shattered their momentum, and now the Trollocs were forcing the disheveled soldiers back.

"Where is the forsaken Covenant!" Reimos screamed. "Where is damned Tar Valon."

The call came. The Trollocs boiled down upon the men, tearing across the ranks like a fever. There was no stopping them. Those who stood their ground were broken. Reimos waved his squad back, and they fought for their lives. They were pushed back harder and faster, and they lost ground ten-fold faster than they had gained them.

"Help the King!" Someone shouted in desperation. Reimos stared at the tornado of blades storming across what once had been a marketplace. King Aemon was surrounded by no less than five fades and two Dreadlords, and a thick ring of Trollocs. The surviving Heart Guards fought desperately against their enclosement, their ashenderai striking down shadowspawn with each blurred motion. But their already few numbers were whittling down faster and faster. Fire and blue lightning crackled over the King's forces, but scattered harmlessly away as if skipping over a shield. Then fire exploded from the hands of the Handmaidens at Aemon's side, flaring across a Dreadlord, and setting him aflame.

"Those women! They're channelers!" Reimos gasped.

"But they're not enough." Cordin answered, "We must help!"

A Guard fell to the blade of the Fade. And a second. Then, the ring of Heart Guard broke to the pressure of the Fade. And the Horde rushed in.

"To the King now!" Reimos hacked his way towards the marketplace, but the resistance was tough and the movement slow.

With the defensive ring broken, the King faced an onslaught on all side. The Queen's Handmaidens blazed with cold lightning but they were struggling hard against the last Dreadlord. The King was the sole focus of the Fades and Trollocs, but he would not go easy. Sanction howled through the air, but not even the legendary great sword could stop the inevitable. A fade plunged his blade through the Alcride's maned neck, and Aemon plunged away from sight.

"No!" Reimos fought with desperation. Fire blazed and crackled over the market place from the direction of the approaching Aes Sedai Airene, but the Trollocs did not shy away from her weaves, their eyes only resting thirsting for the target that was almost theirs. At the other end, General Cathon cut his way towards the beleaguered King at the head of a squad of Heart Guard. But, both were bogged down in heavy resistance. Time was running out.

From nowhere, an armored figure surfaced, cleaving through shadowspawn. The color-shifting cloak distorted his shape, and he moved like a wraith, breaking through shadowspawn like they were not there. Warder cut past two Fades beside him, taking a glancing blow to his helmet. His helmet shifted and fell away, revealing the face of…Aemon? No, the face was older, but the resemblance was uncanny.

Then the King resurfaced, his own helmet lost but his sword still in hand. He stared at his likeness in the Warder, uttering words lost in the din of battle. Then, his rescuer seized the King's shoulder and shoved him towards his approaching men, shouting "You must leave!" as Reimos finally burst upon the scene.

The man called Warder and who looked like the King was surrounded by the Fades, and his swings stalled for time. But even with his power and speed, he was no match to so many, and he was swallowed by the darkness, still fighting.

Aemon stood unmoving, until Heart Guards grabbed his arms and pulled him deeper into his soldiers. Reimos stood at his flanks, warding away blows by the enraged Trollocs.

"Retreat." Aemon finally spoke, as he snapped out of his reverie. "We have lost too much today. The Covenant has abandoned us. We will retreat!"

Hacking away, the Band backed away, leaving thousands upon thousands of their own dead behind. It was a fight for survival now, and they were losing.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	32. Fifth Day

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Fifth Day**

"Five days." Arcanum breathed out in a sigh. His keen eyes scanned the horizon for a sign. Any sign that the Covenant would appear. But they did not. They were two days late, if they were coming at all. They could not hold on without them. The men were wearing out and the cats were running out of feed. The Horde was noticeably smaller than it was at its arrival, but it would last them to the Band's grave.

"Sir, trouble approaching." Captain Blake shouted.

Arcanum had already seen it, an ugly spot of black that was slicing through men like butter. He instantly knew what it was before he focused on it with his newest watchglass.

"Arclites." Arcanum replied, "And it appears they're driving for us."

Arcanum has had fought his shares of Arclites before. Trollocs armored to the point of impossibility with thick plates of iron and black steel. Their shape was instantly recognizable in their skull-like helmets ridged with spikes. Their entire armor was a continuous piece of weapon, with spikes and blades gouging at every angle. With the mass and speed of a Trolloc driving them, nothing but an Aes Sedai or a full sixteen-row Saferi Phalanx could stop their charge. Just a dozen was enough to tear a company into bloody pieces without a halt in their steps. What was charging numbered in the dozens of fists. Charging through the entire body of the Band like it didn't exist towards Arcanum's Legion, to put his engines and its crews to death.

There were curses among the crews as they noticed the roiling spikes of death thundering towards them.

"Sir, shall we dig our graves now or after?"

"No, wait! Arbies, NOW!" Arcanum shouted hoarsely, "Staggered rows."

There was a rush towards the arbalest stocks that bordered almost on panic. Arcanum seized one of the machines, and spun towards the oncoming Arclites. Catapults fell silent as their crews kneeled and loaded their arbalests as fast as humanly possible, steadying them with their shoulders.

"Hold your fire until you have a clear shot!" Arcanum shouted, his own arbalest resting on his tense shoulders. He listened to the screams of men caught in the path of the spike-armored death, and swallowed hard. Then the beasts burst within range, their black armor dripping with visceral fluids of their victims, immediately homing on to the catapults and their crews. Each bore a mace in one hand and a torch in the other—for the catapults.

"FIRE ONE!" The first wave sliced through the air, cracking through inch-thick armor. Armored Trollocs dropped in a line, but were quickly replaced by more behind them.

"FIRE TWO!" Arcanum fired himself, feeling the arbalest kicking hard into his shoulder. His bolt smashed straight into its target, cracking its fire-hardened iron breastplate in half, and drilling the Arclite through the heart.

The first wave had finished reloaded, and a third stream of thick bolts dropped the closest arclites. Never before had arclites gone down so fast, but they were too many and they were too fast.

"SWORDS!" Arcanum drew his sword and found himself facing the massive incarnation of men's worst nightmare. He raised his ineffective sword up at the down-swing of the Arclite, and prepared for the heavy blow that would end his life.

A axe smashed through the Arclite's iron-skull helmet, sending the beast sprawling with half his head gone. All around Thunder Legion, Arclites fell to rains of massive blows that cracked through their armor, and shattered their momentum. The armored Trollocs were now being pushed back by the Legion's unlikely rescuer.

"Ogiers!" Arcanum gasped. All around, the massive creatures were storming the Arclites in a vicious rage that the general had never even suspected they may be able have. He immediately recognized them as the refugee group he saw by Manetheren palace. He now understood the hate and fury they were now commanding. The Ogier's greatest love was their Groves, and it had been snatched away into ashes. The survivors of Manetheren grove were now fighting heedless of own harm, consumed by anger. Wearing ill-fitted and scavenged armor, the giants shrugged off blows that would have crippled a man, and grappling with shadow spawn that would have made any Covenant army run in terror. But Ogiers were mortal like men, and even their righteous rage could not make them invincible. They begin dropping to the arclites withering strikes.

Then a rush of men all around Arcanum, and the air was lit up by showers of arrows, drumming harmlessly against the Arclite's armor. But with enough arrows, some found weak spots, and the withering fire and pressure from the Ogiers began to take its toll on the Arclites. All around soldiers flowed past, cloaked in blue and gold cloaks. With both reinforcements of men and Ogier and the main body of the Band trapping the Arclites, the Trollocs were soon fighting for their lives, and soon fighting nothing but dirt.

"Who?" Arcanum stared around in bewilderment. "The Covenant?"

"Commodore Disol at your pleasure, general!" A horseman cantered forth, baring forth a short slender man, wearing leather armor slightly too big on him, "We are in the Covenant, just as you, but we do not represent a standing army of the Covenant. We are the combined van of the Volunteer Army of Coratheren and the Reservists of Northern Manetheren."

Arcanum's mood was quenched as he glanced at the reinforcement. Volunteers and reservists. Farm boys and old man. Perhaps a thousand men. A drop in the ocean.

"What were you before they made Commodore?"

"I was...a bookkeeper, sir." Disol licked his lips nervously. "We rallied when we heard Jara'Copan had fallen and Manetheren was under siege. We thought we were too late, until we saw the fireworks some nights ago. We crossed through the Marena line, which was empty, and forded across from there."

"You came from the north?" Arcanum perked up to this news. "Did you see any sign of an army? A Covenant army in the hundreds of thousands? You must have!"

"No, sir. We rallied through most of the villages in northeast Manetheren. An army that size we could not have missed. General, we are the only reinforcements you will have. We are the last fighting men of Manetheren. There are no more. I'm a bookkeeper and they made me commodore. Because I read some books on fighting." Disol frowned, "But we are here to fight. All of these men are good men. You won't find them lacking in mettle. We aren't afraid to die."

"So they aren't, Commodore the Bookkeeper." Arcanum sighed. "We welcome you, and you will be sorely needed." He shook hand with the skinny man, and directed him to Aemon's tent.

"We will need to move the cats again, Blake. We are too close to the front. Or I should say the front's getting too close to us. We got lucky that time."

"Aye, sir, it'll be one hour until we are fully operational again."

"So be it. If you need me before then, I will be in the Pit." There was nothing to do here until the catapults could be set up again, and there were answers that need to be answered.

The Pit was on the far fringe within the largest tent in the Band surrounded by a chain picket. Two guards stood at attention at the entrance. Glancing at Arcanum's sigil, they nodded to him, "Careful, General, with the prisoners."

The general nodded, and ducked within the confines of the pit. Two lanterns guttered their light upon a narrow table, filled with sharp instruments. There were only two prisoners, each bound to heavy solid bars that were imbedded twenty feet deep into the earth. The first was a man, and he was simply shackled arms and feet. The second was something less than a man, almost completely covered by thick chains.

Arcanum passed the imprisoned Fade, and stood in front of the man, one of the traitors, one of the soldiers of the Lost Company. The man looked up at Arcanum's approach with black eyes hidden in thick shadows.

"You here to torture me, general?" The man croaked from cracked lips. His shirt was tattered and his red cloak hung ragged like a noose. His face, though darkened by sweat and blood, would not be amiss from the face of a native of Jara'Copan, with his angular nose and cheeks.

"Were you there at Shanaine?" Arcanum peered into those dark orbs. "Were you there when the walls collapsed upon the women and children, crushing their soft flesh and bones, buried alive in a slow death of starvation and pain? Did you kill your friends and family that held arm in Jara'Copan?"

"It is war, general. At least I am man enough to take life with my hands, and not cower behind instruments that deal in far death. It is simple for you to give the command to kill. I have to face the choice every day. As I have spoken to those who came before you, I gave my oath to my potentate, and I will continue in that oath."

"To that whoreson Vanigan?" Arcanum growled.

"You do not know anything, do you?" The prisoner spat on the ground, "You and your pretentious ideals, you damned hypocrite. Nothing more I despise than a hypocrite, and I'll take pleasure in your destruction."

"I am a hypocrite when you betrayed your own kind?"

"My own kind?" The man laughed and coughed at the same time, "I am with my own kind. And it's not yours. You would put my kind to death and send us into eternal shame. Have you not realized yet? Each and every one of the Lost Company has the Spark. Vanigan felt the seed in each and every one of us, and hand selected us for his own company."

Arcanum reeled back and found his sword in hand. Male Channelers? Every one?

"Yes, learn to fear, coward. Learn to fear our return."

Arcanum reached forth, and snatched away the man's cloak, tearing it from his shoulders. The prisoner hissed, "You have no right! No authority over me."

"With the command of a Second Lord of Manetheren and the authority of the Hierarchy, I strip you of your cloak and your word. Your honor is worth ashes, and your cloak too. You are discharged forever from the bonds of the Legions of Manetheren. And may Caldazar forgive your soul." Arcanum raised the cloak over a lantern, letting the tongues of flame lick up through its tattered surface, until it was a piece of glowing flame. He cast the cloak to the ground, where it crumbled to ashes and smoke, to the sneer of the prisoner.

The prisoner shook his head, lowering his eyes, "My allegiance is greater than a cloak. My master is far greater than your paltry king."

"Who, Vanigan?"

NO. The prisoners' eyes rose, burning with ethereal flames and his voice a roar that shuddered through Arcanum's mind, ME.

The General drew his sword, its tip instantly perched before the man's throat. "Who are you?" He whispered.

WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION ME, WORM? The flames quivered sharply. I AM BA'ALZAMON. AND THIS IS THE HERALD OF YOUR END.

"Allies rally to our banner every day, and we shall hold your troops till they rot into dust. Until the end of time. When the White Tower arrive--"

The possessed man roared, THE WHITE TOWER BELONGS TO ME. THEY WILL RAISE NO HAND AGAINST ME. SEE AND KNOW YOUR BETRAYERS.

Visions coursed Arcanum's minds, burning hot against his brain. Flickering pictures of Aes Sedai one after another kneeling before him scour through his eyes, until one last image stays focused for the longest moment. A woman with the Amyrlin's stole bent her knee, and swore her allegiance. Then, the visions shattered and pierced his mind like shards of glass.

Arcanum locked his eyes closed, but the images still flashed burned red on the insides of his lids. Pain echoed through his skull, and he quailed before the voice of Ba'alzamon.

YOUR CAUSE IS LOST. YOU SHOULD HAVE FINISHED THE JOB AT SHAYOL GHUL. NOW YOU HAVE UNLEASHED MY AGENTS.

The chain around the man shivered, then began to split and crack, as the man was infused with superhuman strength. With no choice, Arcanum buried his sword in the man's throat, and the fire of Ba'alzamon vanished from the possessed prisoner's eyes, leaving but startlement, gasping silently, then dying softly.

Arcanum felt like a hammer had knocked the air from his lungs, and he stumbled backwards. He crashed into the table, tumbling all its items onto the floor and upsetting the lanterns on the ground. Chains rattled beneath his feet, and he turned to gape at the empty prison that had once housed the halfman, the chains now lying loose upon the floor.

He stumbled out of the tent, almost running into Nathen Austern.

"What happened here?" The adjutant exclaimed, and Arcanum saw the two guards lying prone on the ground, their eyes burned out.

"The Fade. It's out. We're betrayed." Arcanum breathed, staring down at the horrors sketched on the guard's faces. "What are you doing here?"

"The Marshall-General sent me to check on the prisoners. There is chaos in the ranks. Donahin was murdered in his sleep, and men are disappearing in the night. Did you just say--Who betrayed us?"

"Tar Valon." He felt the heat at the back and heard the tent crackle up into flames. "Tar Valon has doomed us."

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	33. Ninth Day

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Ninth Day**

The King's tent was surrounded by a ring of grim Heart Guards, cold eyes following General Lawe Cathon's arrival, but did not move to stop him. Within the Guards was an inner ring of white-gowned Handmaidens whom Cathon had now recognized as channelers, resting as in meditation. Their eyes opened when he past them, displaying eyes as cold as the Heart Guards. Security has increased greatly, since Donahin was murdered in his tent while under full guard. The closest Handmaiden glanced up at him, brown eyes staring in concentration, and then a look of surprise.

"How do you do that?" She uttered.

"Do what?" Cathon answered.

"The One Power. It does not touch you."

The general's eyes flickered down to his medallion for a second, and walked past her without answering.

He stooped through the entryway, and found two more Heart Guards beside the entrance with another Handmaiden. This time, the Guards crossed their ashenderai to block his entrance, but the voice of the King beckoned them to stand down.

"Marshall-General Cysil is dead, my Lord. Vanigan has halted his attacks and have begun shifting his positions. He is making sure that no one escapes his final assault." Cathon studied the walls of the tent. There were marks and tears around from Vanigan's tantrum, but in whole it was salvaged. The table and the maps were gone. The figure of the King sat cross-legged on the floor of the table, almost in complete darkness.

Aemon looked up, his eyes hollow and his face lined. Cathon took a seat across him, "My King, I have consolidated the survivors of the Grand-Legions into the Band. We have but twenty thousand standing men."

Aemon only sighed.

"The men need you." Cathon continued on. "You have stayed in here for far too long. You have mourned for your father long enough. They need to see you with them. Or else they will lose hope. They will falter." Cathon peered into the King's eyes. "What did he say to you?"

"You knew it was him, didn't you?" Aemon rumbled, "And I guess, I suspected. When my father first came into my presence even inside that armor, I recognized his stance and his carriage. I once hated him, you know, when I was young. I hated how he left. I hated the responsibility that he had left a boy too young to understand its weight. But, in the years when I felt the crown on my head, that hate was lost, and I found understanding, of a sort. But he never left my mind. You want to know what he said to me before he died? He apologized. He told me he was sorry. I guess his sacrifice was meant as a penance."

"And did you accept his apology?"

"Lawe, I had long passed the need for apologies. The present has enough in store for us. Why look into the past for more skeletons to drag up? But, yes, I do accept his apology well enough. And now looking back, I wish I had more time with him. But, don't we all? We are much alike in that regard, Lawe. But enough. You are right. I have spent too much time in contemplation. I had to be reminded of that by Eldrene. And you as well."

"She was here?"

"She spoke to me through her Handmaidens. She can communicate to them through their dreams."

"That is good news."

"We must retreat back to the city."

Cathon raised his brows. "Sir, that would put the people in danger."

"Elderene has been evacuating people from the day we left Manetheren."

"You knew? She knew?"

Aemon gestured at the women at his door, "Leave me for a moment."

The Heart Guards stared at Cathon's sword, perhaps wondering if he was enough to defend the king. But, they obeyed and left the tent, along with the Handmaiden.

"Lawe. I'm going to tell you some things because I know you will be able to handle it."

The King leaned forward. "The stakes in this war is greater than you suspect."

"Greater than our very existence?" Cathon was incredulous.

"There are few times in the Tapestry of Ages when the threads become so raveled in such a point. A knot, if you will. No, this isn't Tarmon Gai'don, nor is it the end of an Age. It is simply a balance point, teetering upon the edge of a sword. Listen. Three of the greatest Seers such concentrated here. Two of the greatest armies of the Trolloc Wars. Ba'alzamon himself looks on. The Shells of Caldazar once more adorn the mantle of great generals.

"Airene Sedai is a Foreteller, Lawe, arguably the strongest of the Seers. But, she is matched by Eldrene, a Dreamer of no lesser skill."

"Who is the third?"

"Vanigan." Aemon pronounced the name Cathon had been expecting. "He is the Dark Prophet. From the moment he drank from the flames of Shayol Ghul, he saw for a moment through the eyes of the Dark One, into the past, present, and future. Lawe, many paths of destiny extend from this, some towards unspeakable evil towards which Vanigan drives.

"I did not myself expect this, Lawe. I did not know that we would be in our current situation, until the Queen told me last night through her avatars. I suspect for reasons beyond my comprehension."

"So Tar Valon did indeed betray us." Cathon's voice was deadpan.

"Yes, Eldrene has confirmed this. And if you speak to Airene, she will acknowledge it."

"They knew that Tar Valon would betray us." Cathon did not need Aemon to answer to know.

The King nodded, "I know no more than that. I suspect that you are not satisfied with these answers, but you must get them from your Advisor, if she wills. Go then, I have sent for her already. One last thing. She must leave. That was the last instruction Eldrene left. The Aes Sedai must leave. She will listen only to you, I suspect, Lawe. So, go. I will prepare for our retreat."

Cathon stood up, his mind swimming, and he found that he had difficulty breathing. He bowed silently to Aemon and exited the tent, almost running into Airene.

"Walk with me." Cathon beckoned to her, and she fell into steps beside him. They walked through the mud that had formed from a hard cold rain the night before.

"Something's troubling you." Airene probed, revealing nothing.

Cathon simply nodded. Around him, he could see the glances of the men towards him, but especially towards the Aes Sedai. Fierce glances brimming with hate. Braver soldiers spat out insults. It was no secret now that the White Tower had betrayed the people of Manetheren, and Airene was an Aes Sedai. There was great rage in the camp focused on her now. She pretended not to notice this, but it was obvious that she had become accustomed to this.

"Tower whore." A soldier snapped, approaching her, but Cathon blocked him with his arm and sent him stumbling back.

"Why did you not tell me about Tar Valon." Cathon finally asked.

"We each have a part to play, Lawe. Nothing can change that, not even fallible recognizance. Just because I can glimpse into the Pattern does not mean that I know all the decisions to make. So I'll be blunt. The White Tower is no longer united. An eight Ajah has formed, up to the highest stoles, with influences to the Amyrlin Seat itself, dedicated to the Dark One. They are strong, for they have been allowed to foster and grow. In the many lines of the future, they are not stopped, and the White Tower becomes in all essence a second Shayol Ghul. Beyond that there is no hope. All paths from then on lead to the victory of the Dark One. Not even the Dragon Reborn and his Prophecy could stand against such a weight.

"But their betrayal of Manetheren is perhaps the biggest possibility of our success. They have moved too fast. Once the world has seen the Tower betray their greatest ally, there will be a Purge. The eight ajah will not be destroyed—their roots are too strong-- but it will be crippled enough."

Cathon finally found words. "You are betraying us for politics?"

"I am not betraying you, general." Airene's words hardened. "Vanigan betrayed you when he joined the Horde. The White Tower betrayed you when they stole your reinforcements. I have fought with you, general. Have you not noticed that I am the only Aes Sedai that remain? I will fight to my death for Manetheren. For you."

"You knew about Tar Valon's lies." Cathon hissed.

"And what could I have done about it? Men fight because they have hope. Would you have them stare despair in the eyes on the first day? You would not have even this army you have now. Arad's Blood will take only so much despair. Manetheren would have fallen. This way, Queen Eldrene has had the time to evacuate the city. And now that they know about the betrayal, the soldiers are angry. They are furious. They would fight to the last man with righteous anger.

"Vanigan would tear through the Pattern to shape it his way. But his way is wrong, and he will ultimately fail. We have worked long and hard, putting into motion small actions, that taken together can effect an indominable influence. If you will be angry with me, I will accept it along with the hatred that spews from your men now."

Cathon took a breath. "You would sacrifice a nation for an untested future."

Airene stared back. "Let me ask you a question. A hypothetical. Who would you save? One man or a hundred?"

"Hypotheticals are horse fodder, Airene, and you know it. Who's the man and who's the hundred?"

"Who would you choose to save, the Band of Red Hand or me?"

Cathon was silent for a moment. To answer in the latter would be treason. But he replied anyways, "You."

"You jest." She saw that his face was completely serious, and closed her eyes, "Then I have failed."

She bit her bottom lips, then whispered, "General, do not let me be your weakness. I had made the mistake, and I blame myself." She began to mutter to herself. "I did not see it. How could I? I cannot see my own future. But, Eldrene must have. Why did she let it go so far."

"Airene—"

"Lawe, in the future, you will be given a choice. You will choose with your mind. Not with your heart. I dare not say any more."

Cathon absorbed this. He had never seen Airene so unraveled. Never in his long years with her had he seen her composure slip so much. Except for the one moment in the Ways.

"You must leave." Cathon murmured.

"What?" Anger burned in her eyes. "Don't try to protect me, Lawe. Don't disgrace what I have toiled for."

"It's not that." But, it was just that, Cathon realized, but he pushed that aside. "That was Eldrene's message."

She looked unconvinced. "Why?"

"Look, face reality here." Cathon did not want her here. He could see the blazing glares from the men burning into the Aes Sedai's head. "Every single soldier here wants you dead. With the exception of me and the King. We need every man fighting, not aiming for your death. Now, you wanted your White Tower purged. Then, you better get the news out there. You had best tell the world what we have done here. And to see that what we do does not go unforgotten."

"I can't just abandon my charge—"

"You're not abandoning anything. Finish what you start. Sometimes dying is the easy way out. Tell me that you will leave. Now."

She looked forlornly at his face and leaned her face closer until they were almost touching. "I'm sorry. I can't leave."

"I'm sorry too." His sword left his sheath and flashed an inch away from her uncovered neck. Her eyes flashed wide in surprise. He raised his voice so that all that were watching could hear him. "This witch is hereby banished from the camp and will be escorted out. If she returns-- kill her."

There were some applause but were instantly silenced by Cathon's glare. He stared into Airene's eyes and held his breath. Please do not do anything stupid, Airene.

The surprise in her eyes slowly faded into hurt and finally into the practiced gaze of an Aes Sedai. She pursed her lips as if daring him to strike through her bared throat. Cathon's hand was shaking and he hoped she didn't see it.

"Nathen," Cathon called to his aide who had been trailing them for some time, "Come here."

The adjutant faithfully stepped forward until Cathon pulled him close with his free hand. He whispered into Nathen's ears, "You are my most trusted. Escort her out of Manetheren into safety. You know the passages here well. Put your life before hers. Get any supplies you need from the quartermaster. Anyone that stop you will answer to me."

"Yes, sir. With my life, sir." Nathen Austern nodded.

Cathon sheathed his sword and gestured towards Airene. "Your services are no longer required, my Lady. Good-bye."

Before Nathen could escort her away, she pulled away from the Adjutant, and gripped Cathon's cloak. There was a rustle in the soldiers around, but Cathon waved them off. She hissed into the general's ears, "Don't do anything stupid."

And then Nathen lead the Aes Sedai away. She turned her head one last time to stare balefully at Cathon before she disappeared. She would not return. That was the last time he ever saw her.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	34. Sergeant Stef Reimos

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Sergeant Stef Reimos**

His name was Stef Reimos, a sergeant in the Grand-Legion of Manetheren, officially serving in commission for one year, but serving in capacity for ten. In those years, he had fought and he had retreated. This was a time for the latter.

They retreated—fled—across the plains towards the city of Manetheren. The Band of the Red Hand was battered and mutilated, running hard like a beaten dog. Behind them, they left thousands of their wounded and dying.

The Horde let them flee, harrying the retreating men but did not press them hard. It was a game to them now, for it was a matter of time before the thorn in the Dark One's side was crushed. Utterly crushed below the heel of _Ba'alzamon_, as all those who dare to stand against the inevitable.

At last the legion came against the walls of Manetheren, and there made rest and preparations for a last stand.

In sight of the glimmering white towers, Reimos found some comfort, but not much. His squad was devastated. The only man left in the squad that had come with him into the North was the tyro Cordin, though no longer a tyro. Survivors of dead companies and squads united into new patchwork companies and squads, like some sort of creatures stitched out of body parts found in the cemetery.

Reimos was the nominal leader of the new squad, but he was no longer the only sergeant. There was Sarge Keenan Dorik, who hailed from the now defunct 2nd Light Infantry, a bearded man of Reimos' age, and an able swordsman who had been in the North for twelve rugged years. The third sergeant was Tesly Lod, a short man scarred by frostbite, sullen and dour, from the absorbed Grand-Legion of Jara'Copan. Then there was Trid Icas, a squirrely man with eagle eyes and Flounder Casoc, the largest of the bunch who now had only one eye. The last was Catapult Rores with his scavenged Arbalest and of course, Cordin Brogan, the tyro that had managed to survive by sheer luck and quick learning curve.

It was a bad situation, and everyone knew it. They were positioned before the South Gate, with no cover and no backup. Twenty thousand survivors against perhaps two-hundred thousand. This was now a holding war. They would be fighting for time, for the last refugees to depart the city. There were no more citizens of Manetheren, only refugees.

Reimos and his squad were bulking the middle, the heart of the army. Exactly the place where the Horde would be concentrating their strength as well. Every single soldier knew that the center must hold.

The Trollocs rimmed the horizon, just out of catapult range. It was a sight that continued to cause Reimos to shiver. He could felt the weight of their numbers pressing on them. It was psychological. Their commanders were trying to shake the men with the anticipation and dread. Then those damned drums began. Like the heartbeat of a massive monster, the rumble rolled over the men, shaking the ground, and vibrating the walls behind them. The drums hummed on until Reimos' ear drums were prepared to burst. The fight would begin soon. About time.

'Who's in charge here?" A horseman shouted.

Reimos raised his hand, and the horseman approached him. "We need guards for the last refugees. We need volunteers now. Skilled ones, if possible. Surgeons, farmers, trackers, the like."

Instantly, Reimos immediately hated that man. Here he was perfectly fine with his life completely planned out, and this messenger threw him a loop. Now, he remembered. _Zira_. Here was his chance to drop the death-walk and take up on her offer. Why did she have such a draw on him? He and she had only met but weeks. She taught him the dagger, and he taught her the sword. And here he was struggling. He could do it. Turn to the messenger and say _I'm your man_, give a sad farewell to his squad, and hike out of that Light forsaken place. No one would begrudge him. They would do the same, right?

"Cordin." Reimos clenched his fists, a fake smile glued to his face. "Get up here. It's your lucky day."

The look on the young man's face was startlement, but soon a look of relief crept onto his face, before a look of guilt washed it away. "Sir, I don't know—"

"One man isn't going to mean anything now." Reimos grunted through clenched teeth. He wanted to slap the kid across the face or strangle him. _Take it before I change my mind_. _Before I get the courage_. "Go on." Those last words left a bitter taste in Reimos' mouth.

"Sir! It's been an honor."

It was an impulse, but so strong, that Reimos could not resist. He stopped Cordin with a bark, "Wait—wait a moment. I need a favor."

"Sir."

"I need you to give something to a friend of mine."

"The nurse, sir? Zira?"

"Who told you that?" His voice cracked, but he stifled it. "Never mind. Take this." Reimos pulled off his cloak.

"Sir, I can't. I thought you said—"

"Give this to her." Reimos shoved the cloak into his hands. "You know that I would die before I gave this up. And so does she. I don't want her to wait for me."

"At the medic camp?"

"Ain't no medics here, kid. They've packed up, because there's no healing tonight. She'll be with the refugees. Waiting to the last minute, if I know her damn well."

Cordin must have realized the serious situation, and seemed to be mustering the courage to dig his grave with them, but Reimos cut him off, "They need you more than us. Hurry."

Reimos watched him leave, and for a brief moment, imagined that their places were switched. And, then he was pulled back upon the mundane earth, and his mind weighed heavy. He silenced the regret and self-hatred, sealed it away in the darkest recesses of his mind. He could still sense it clawing at his mind and heart, but he could bear it. He could bear it enough.

And so his squad lost one. It would not be their last one lost. Not by a long shot.

Reimos stared across the great divide at the shadowspawn. He let calmness sink through his muscles. He had been here before. But never had they ever met such sheer number difference. But, it was only numbers. Numbers were for the accountants and bean dockers. He was a soldier. Just do his work. That is all.

Reimos took a deep breath and began his ritual. It was a ritual to clean the mind and prepare the body, but he could not stop shaking. He glanced around at the small group to find all eyes on him. The King and the generals will not be giving fancy speeches today. His squad will be looking at him. He ignored the tremors as best he could and cleared his throat

"Okay, squad. You all know the truth. There's no walking out today." As he talked, he went through his ritual, his eyes checking and double-checking and triple-checking his equipment.

One shortsword sheathed. A steel gladius. His mainstay.

"That's fine. We've got a lot of Trollocs out there. We've got a lot of darkfriends out there as well. Lots of bastards that want our head. But, this isn't about them."

On his left arm, above his stump, he bore a small dense shield, to which he tightened the straps.

"We got knocked to the ground and kicked in the teeth by the witches in Tar Valon. We rode when they called, and they're leaving us like animals for the butcher. But, this ain't about them either."

His eyes roamed his belt. There was one quarter-filled waterskin. He drank the rest of his flat water and cast the empty skin onto the ground. He would not longer need it, and it would just be useless weight.

The more he talked, the faster words poured out in a biting viciousness. "This is about us. This is about the squad. Cut open our veins and you'll find the reddest blood there is. That's what matters, not what some harlot or traitor did. _Damn them_."

"Damn them." Dorik echoed.

Two daggers hung on his belt. He left those alone.

He raised his voice. "We're Band of the bloody Red Hand. We're soldiers of the mountain. We're no Aes Sedai meat. They kick us in the teeth, and we'll kick them right back in the bloody codpiece."

He removed one mud-smeared hand-shovel and tossed it with the waterskin. He opened his oilskin pouch. Inside was his letter of pension and two cash notes that weren't worth the paper they were scribbled on. He threw that on the ground as well. He unclipped his blanket roll and freed his ad hoc medic kit. Everything he threw on the ground with hard force and a grimace on the face.

"They know not what they have unleashed. Show them no mercy."

"NO MERCY!" The men replied grimly.

"Give them no quarter." Reimos bared his teeth.

"NO QUARTER!" They replied.

"We are soldiers of the Band of Red Hand, and _this_ is our calling."

Each man weighed the words, their eyes nodding to Reimos. Emotions burned through the air in waves. Each was a dead man, but there is nothing on this world more dangerous than such a man, with nothing to lose and who have suffered the most. Tragedy, not comedy, makes the hero.

Reimos' thin leather armor was tight, and his weight was gone. Just him, his weapons and his squad. He drew one dagger, smelled the oiled steel of the blade, and stared at the pile in front of him. He felt lighter and freer. The ritual was done. The men were ready.

There was a hum of sudden silence that flew across the plains, so that each soldier could hear the beat of their own heart. And, then the charge--the final charge.

He was prepared. His mind was now clear and focused. But what no one could ever prepare for were the Dreadlords. Ear-rending explosions chained through the ranks. Where men stood were now replaced with smoke, shrapnels, and parts that once belonged to men. He was never prepared for it, but he weathered it like he was conditioned. He gritted his teeth and tried to close his mind against the heat and shockwaves that ripped against him, and tried to steady his attention at the approaching Trollocs.

They came at a hard roar. Deadly and fluid, the black flood coursed across the hills up towards their positions. Most of them came up the main road, but more just clambered across the rocky incline. The Band of the Red Hand had the advantage of height, but the Shadowspawn had the advantage of momentum. And the men aimed to break that momentum.

Boulders began to tumble down in an avalanche that broke through the Trolloc lines, crushing those that were caught in their paths, leaving streaks of emptiness that were quickly filled.

They were past the barrage of boulders and upon the first line, where the Trollocs suddenly halted. The first shadowspawn fell into the disguised pits, smashing down and blocking those behind them. Reimos threw his dagger hard against the Trolloc trapped before him. It was a good shot. The blade vibrated from the Trolloc's skull as the beast collapsed.

But this only slowed down the Trollocs. Barely. They climbed over their trapped brethren and stormed the Band's lines through the deluge of arrows. There were no more tricks up the sleeves. The battle was in the soldiers' hands now.

Reimos yanked his sword out and his eyes shifted into their acquirement mode. The generals had strategy, but Reimos and every soldier in the pits were trained and bred hard for tactics. Every single soldier here had fought in multiple engagements and survived them—not an easy task by any measure. A Trolloc is more than a match for a raw soldier. But the only raw soldiers in the Band were long dead.

Reimos extended his vision around his squad's sphere. Whatever was outside the sphere was not his problem. Another squad would pick it up.

Three Trollocs charged into the sphere. In that instant, his eyes locked onto them, and his mind immediately appraised them in a second. The first Trolloc had a badly fitting chainmail that only crouched around its chest. The second was steel armored in all but his head. And the last bore no armor but hard iron plate. His mind filtered through his stream of consciousness, plucking out the essentials of survival in matters of seconds.

What ran through the Trollocs' mind was simply instinct and bloodlust to kill. That had some advantages. It made them savage and fierce and nearly impervious to pain. But, against battle-tested squads that could read their weakness in a moment, they could not compensate.

Reimos flashed two straight fingers. The squad flowed into action. It was new operating procedure, but battle-tested. Lod and Casoc took the point, both were capable and strong enough to take the first hits and block for the squad. That left Reimos and Dorik with the dirty work of the strikers. They were agile and the best at the blade; they would be doing the killing. Last were Icas and Rores as flank, whose jobs were to defend the squad from flank attacks. A simple procedure, but deadly.

The three Trollocs did not know what hit them. Casoc met two Trollocs with his large frame and sword. Lod feinted towards the third, and kept its attention on himself. Then, the strikers blew in. Reimos gutted his first, with a hard jab through the spawn's stomach, slicing easily through the iron mail. Lod had dispatched his targets with ease, a sword through a head and another through the back.

They were fast and efficient. But they were nowhere near done.

Now the rush was on. Instead of three, they met five. And when they laid those five down, there was ten. And then it was no longer clumps, but a continuous stream that poured against their efficient little squad.

Reimos struggled to maintain his footing among the corpses sprawled around him. Sweat dripped hard from his face, tearing into his eyes. His mind thumped with the flood of data, so rapid and intricate that his conscious mind could not sort them fast enough. Around him, he could feel the squad moving still in tandem, but slowly falling apart. There were becoming too many targets for the points, too many targets for the strikers, and especially too many targets for the flanks.

Explosions ripped Reimos from the ground, sending him sprawling. He felt a lace of pain through his shoulder as he rolled across the blade of a fallen axe, leaving a crescent of bright blood. He struggled to a stand, as he coughed through the thick smoke that enveloped the area. Sounds came at a soft roar, and he tried to shake the ringing from his head. He had lost his sword somewhere, but he drew his last dagger.

Trollocs appeared in the smoke, whipping and dissipating the smoke around them, eyes glowing white in the cloudy particles. Reimos snapped his dagger at the closest one, but he was rattled by the explosion, and the knife skittered off its chainmail. The Trolloc flashed its fangs and pounced.

A staff-like object found his seeking hand and he pulled and swung it hard. An axehead flashed over his head and the staff-end whirled hard against the Trolloc's neck, halting it in its tracks. Reimos kept the halberd spinning in its momentum, skirting it low through the beast's legs, and upending the Trolloc to the dirt.

He spun the halberd to its correct end, and thrust the axehead towards the second Trolloc. Reimos smashed the nose of the wolfheaded beast with the axehead. The Trolloc shook its head of the blood and lunged. Its flight was shortened suddenly by the halberd's blade tapping it hard through its skull. It fell, and brought the trapped halberd with it. Reimos let go his weapon and quickfooted away from the pour of Trollocs.

Around him, reinforcements from the reserves flowed in to plug the hole. Armored pikemen ran by Reimos, their pikes jabbing fast against the charging Trollocs.

"Sergeant!" It was Icas with two pikes in hand. He tossed him Reimos a pike, and waved towards the front.

Reimos held the heavy pike in his one good hand, and followed the reserves into the fray. A line of bristling points met the Trollocs' hard charges, digging hard through armor and flesh. Reimos lowered his pike and grounded the back-end against the mud. A Trolloc smashed against the tip, pushed forward by its comrades behind him. Reimos gritted his teeth and braced himself and the other soldiers in front of him. The two lines held each other at a grinding standstill.

But the Trollocs were building in mass and momentum, and the pikemen were beginning to slide back in the mud. Reimos leaned hard against his pike until he was almost horizontal, but they gave ground against the inhuman muscle of the shadowspawns.

"The center must hold." Reimos growled through his clenched teeth. Sweat chiseled trails across his face. "The center must hold."

The line buckled and trembled. Men threw themselves behind the pikemen, pressing hard against their larger opponents. Reimos' boots slipped in the mud, and he caught himself on one knee.

"The center cannot fall!" A captain screamed hard.

There was a rush of metal and mud somewhere to the right. The line had broken hard. Then another to the left. Reimos felt the critical point. The center was fracturing beyond the point of no return. They could not longer sustain themselves as a body.

Fissures and cracks broke through, but the soldiers did not disintegrate. Instead of shattering into individual men, they broke apart into smaller clusters.

The line before Reimos curled inwards, until they were just a bubble of soldiers in the way of the flood of bodies. Pikes lowered until they were a circle of spears that must have resembled a puffed-up spikerat.

Reimos twisted his pike until the spear edge was horizontal, then jabbed at the blurred bodies of rushing Trollocs. A hard thrust in, and smooth extraction with little twisting. Pike-points cracked all around him in a disharmonic spread. Trollocs threw themselves on the pikes, dragging the weapons down with the weight. The circle shrank on itself with each fallen men, pulling closer at each round of bitter exchange.

More detonations rend the earth, tossing Trollocs and human alike through the air. Reimos found himself lying on the ground once more with sharp rocks and fragments showering on his body.

A hand gripped his and pulled him up, and a familiar voice said, "Stef."

He stared up at his assistant, "Zira, what are you doing here?" The barely contained self-hate flooded from its prison, threatening to wash his mind with it.

"Same reason you are." She shoved a bundle of red into his arms. It was his cloak, wrapped around a sword. All around him, women dove into the fray with vigor, swords and makeshift weapons in hand. Zira's own hand clenched around a sword.

"We're lost, get out!" Reimos croaked, but was silenced by a hard kiss on his lips and the clip of his cloak wrapping around his neck.

"The refugees need more time. We have to give it to them. Don't stand there." She left him and charged towards the nearest Trolloc. Reimos raced after her, his mind unable to comprehend the meaning.

The last of the squads were shattered and scattered, but the Band of Red Hand continued to resist hard. The charge of the women had slowed down the Horde's rush with an undue viciousness.

Reimos had taught Zira the sword, and it was reflected in her poise and form. But, she had her own flavor. Where Reimos was fast, she was agile, and where she lacked in his force, she made up in accuracy. And her elegance in dealing death blew his breath away. She had slain two Trollocs before he found himself at her side. And for a moment, it was like their spars. Both knew each others' moves so intimately, so beyond the scope of even a dedicated squad. They fought with one mind, clearing through Trollocs with simple but deadly efficiency. For the two, it was a dance so old and practiced. Trollocs dropped around them, but all that mattered was the preservation of each other.

But they could not go forever. They knew that before they began. Exhaustion ate through their muscles and devoured their strength. The ferocity of the women was blunted by the heavy weight of the opponents. Though they did not lack in courage, they had few experience fighting, and Trollocs had no problem striking them down.

But where Trollocs tread against two people, they fell. One was a young man older than his age, left by battle and sacrifice with one hand, but who still fought like ten whole men. To his side stood a woman that was born a healer, who had sworn to preserve life above all else, but now a deadly harvester of souls. In another time and in another world, they would have staked a cottage somewhere by the sea, growing old together. But in this time and this world, they lived out their lives here, burning like candles bright in passion and heat. But always in this world and the next, the hottest candles burn out the fastest.

A club smashed onto Reimos' left shoulder with a crack, shattering his bones and sending him reeling onto one knee. The pain was a spiderweb of ice that blinded his eyes with a red flash. He rolled out of the way of the next hit, the pain bursting in pulses that kept him completely disoriented.

Zira stood above his fallen body, her sword the only barrier in the rush of Trollocs. A flash of black was suddenly upon them, a shadow of a shadow. The eyeless horseman met Zira in a brace of swords, arms moving in fatal grace and striking with cold malice. His sword blazed against hers, as Trollocs pressed at their backs. From the ground, Zira looked so fragile, her skinny arms against the indomitable force of the silent killer. Even in the battle, her white dress bore not a single mark, so that she seemed to glow with a radiance. But, she was the only white in the black storm, and he was now the only red. They were alone in an army of thousands, lost in a maelstrom of enemies.

It could be said that it would end before it even began. Where the flesh found that it could not keep up with the will. It was a small error, a tiny stumble in the dance. A block that was too slow, and a sword that was too quick. Zira stared down at the blood blooming across her chest. Reimos was on his feet, charging the Fade, completely unarmed but utterly unafraid, his eyes burning. He was flung back like a child by arm that felt like stone, crashing through Trollocs, and rolling to a hard stop on the rocky ground. He simply laid there waiting, eyes staring at the sky. He would never forget the colors of the sky, for they were the same hue as Zira's eyes. He felt the bite of burning icicles and the sky fade away.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	35. Lieutenant General Diest Arcanum

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Lieutenant-General Diest Arcanum**

"The center has fallen!" Someone shouted.

Arcanum has plenty of choice words for that. But the scout was right. The entire center van of the Band was buried under a wave of shadowspawn. Resistance was broken, and the outer vans were nearly gone as well.

"Blake, get the cats circled up!" Arcanum shouted, wiping sweat from his face. Like the rest of the soldiers perched by the catapults, he was stripped to the waist and nearly melting with sweat. Men all heaved catapults away into a circle of fortification in a near panic. And for a good reason. In less than five minutes, they would be swarmed by an endless tide of enemies.

The only calm person in the ring coolly eyed the distance, and in her soft, commanding voice, the Queen's Handmaiden called out, "Dreadlord. Raise…Turn to the right…There. You may fire when ready, General." It was as if ice flowed through her veins and misted out every time she spoke. She reminded him of an Aes Sedai, except treachery was not mixed with the ice. Personally trained by Eldrene from childhood, these Maidens held only loyalty to Realm and Queen.

Arcanum snapped the firing brace on the new ballista and the bolt hewed through the air to disappear somewhere in the thickness that was pouring towards them. But, he knew the aim would be true, and a Dreadlord would by snapped from his horse by a deadly ten-feet spike. The Handmaiden's aim was never wrong, and she had already steered the death of five fades and two Dreadlords. But, there was no more time to waste on the ballista.

Arcanum leaped towards the nearest catapult and heaved with the men towards its position. He shook the sweat from his hair and shouted, "Disol, how long?"

The commodore of the attached company replied back immediately, "Now! Get your men back!"

Arcanum waved his men away as the bookkeeper-turned-commodore led his men to the defense at the circled catapults. The general and the cat crews quickly delved into the stash of newly engineered Arbalests Mark Two. Lighter and easier to handle, they still packed a comparable stopping power and range. With the last of the engineering corps, they bunched the naphtha barrels into the middle.

Trollocs broke upon the catapults, clambering over to be pushed back by Disol's men. Arcanum immediately gave the signal to the Handmaiden, and she stretched out both arms. Instantly, the catapults burst into flames, gouging a fiery barricade around the men. The Trollocs still perched on the catapults crisped aflame.

Arcanum lit his last torch on the wall of flames and placed the torch on a pole in the center of the naphtha-barrel fortress. "If we fall, you know your duty!"

He stared around at the men in the burning circle. His bare-chested crews perched on the makeshift fortress with cocked Ardeuces. Captain Leis Nosi and his engineers were likewise armed with the last products of their intellects. And finally, Commodore Disol led his group of ragtag volunteers mixed with Thunder Legion's last footmen. It was the very picture of a last stand.

"How long will it burn, Nosi?" Arcanum asked, snapping on his armor and donned his cloak. If he would go, he would go with dignity.

"Less than an hour." The engineer clutched his ardeuce so hard that his knuckles were white.

Trollocs still rushed through the gaps between burning catapults, but none could break through Disol's ring. And with the straight-eyed cat crews handling their newest weapon, no Trolloc stepped one foot through the barricade before being stopped cold by a bolt.

Then the ring of fire spilled inwards, creatures leaping through the flames or rolling under the catapults. Bolts tore into the ground, kicking up sand. Some hit their target, but these creatures were far wilier than the first. They were humans. Soldiers that once called themselves part of the Band of Red Hand.

Tossing away the burning cloaks used to shield themselves, they dodged through the hail of fatal bolts and engaged close Disol's men.

It was like a hawk tearing into a pigeon. Oh, the pigeon was brave and it had a beak and talons that could tear, but the fight was clearly not in its favor. Given a year—or even a month-- in the Band, Disol's volunteers could have been molded into something that could be feared. But, now, with barely one day of fighting experience, they were hopelessly outmatched and dissolved almost instantly at the first moment of engagement. The commodore was one of the first to fall—one traitor ducked below his strike and casually stabbed him through the chest in one motion.

"FIRE THROUGH THE SCREEN!" Arcanum commanded. Bolts scattered through the ring of men while the Lost Company was still occupied by the fledgling resistance of Disol's volunteers. Some of the traitors fell to the hail as well as some of the volunteers, but not enough, and the screen disintegrated. Arcanum's footmen lasted longer, but they were not enough to keep the enemy from charging the center.

The Handmaiden met them with arms stretched. Darkfriends flew into the air, grasped in arms of air. Two men burst spontaneously into flames, rolling flailing onto the earth. But the soldiers were too quick to respond.

"No!" Arcanum shouted, as a crossbow buried itself into the handmaiden's torso, its point stabbed through the back. The pure white dress soaked with blood. She raised her gloved-hand to her wound, but she did not scream or fall. Instead, the soldiers trapped in the air were suddenly flung shrieking into the sky. Another man was engulfed in ravenous fire. Arrows crossed the air, stitching through the channeler. Under the barrage, she finally fell silently.

Arcanum dropped his ardeuce and quickdrew his sword, but many of his men were not as fast and died with close-arms sheathed. Lost Company swarmed across the engineers and crews with deadly speed, almost as easily as with the volunteers.

Lieutenant-General Arcanum was a different matter. Though he preferred the catapult, he still possessed most of the sword skills of a Lord of Manetheren. He was a wily commander and he knew the capabilities of the soldiers. He saw instantly that there would be no win from this, but he could still make them pay a bitter price. The traitors' styles were nearly identical to their brethrens, swarming their prey in squads like a pack of steel-fanged wolves. Arcanum knew that he could not fight any one-on-one, unless he wanted to be stabbed in the back. There would be no clean fighting today.

Arcanum swept his broadsword around him, keeping the squads at bay, ducking through naph barrels to break up his assailants. Clay vessels smashed all around him, and shimmering dark liquid sprayed everywhere.

Two men jumped onto barrels, slashing down at Arcanum's head, while three more came at him from behind. Arcanum ducked and rolled, feeling shards of clay and gravel dig into his shoulders. His upswing took one through the arm, but quickly swept around to ward off his back. He never spent more than one stroke on any one fighter, instead weaving through the squad with his larger blade and longer range driving them back.

They were faster and better equipped for melee. Well, almost. Arcanum still had his cloak, while they had lost theirs in the fire. The tough fabric in the hands of a seasoned soldier or general can turn the tide in a battle. Arcanum tugged his cloak with his left hand, exaggerating and feinting his motion. Blades slashed through cloth and air, and then Arcanum twisted the strong cloth to trap an extended sword and snatched it free. He deflected some close strikes, pulled his cloak free and threw it at the nearest combatants to obscure their vision and buy him some time.

He bumped into the familiar person of Cydin Blake. A quick look passed between the two, and they stood back-to-back against the Lost Company under the burning sun. A ring of red-cloaked darkfriends surrounded them. Arcanum breathed hard, his lungs burning. He glanced down at the fallen body of Leis Nosi, his weapon clenched in his dead hands.

"Not one step back, Captain."

"Quite right, General. Quite right." Blake agreed.

The Lost Company gathered around the last two men, swords held easily in hand. They stood hard over the corpses of brothers and brothers alike, crunching over the shards of clay floating in the puddles of naphtha. The burning catapults flickered behind them.

"We got a lord here." A soldier wearing the stripes of a commodore spoke with a metropolitan Manetheren clip. Soot stained his face, but his eyes met Arcanum's coolly. "First Lord Vanigan wants him. The other is game."

Arcanum automatically ducked as a blur skimmed by him, but the gasp behind him spoke of the true target. Clutching at the arrow in his throat, Blake tumbled back in the coil of death. Silent rage burned through like acid through his veins and he tugged free the captain's sword from his slack hands, with a grim salute to Blake's still open eyes.

The traitors charged in one, converging on the general with breathtaking speed, and he turned with a broadsword in each hand. Swords hammered against his, but he hewed across them as if they were not there, depositing their bodies almost a yard away. He felt gashes of cold cutting against his skin, but they were like bee pricks in his trance. The opposite, unfortunately, was not true for the men of Lost Company.

There was too many, even for the Thunder Lord. They swarmed all around him, in a pulse waving of swords, striking at any uncovered flesh. Scores of hits ate through his arms, cumulating in a severed tendon that forced him to give up a sword to the torso of one assailant. With his remaining sword, he carved a circle around him, keeping them at a standstill. He would fall eventually, but he would leave a heavy mark.

They must have realized the same, for the swarm retreated from him. An arrow cut through the air, stabbing into his knees with an agonizing white flash of pain. A second arrow slashed into Arcanum's shoulder, piercing his armor and grinding against his bone. Arcanum swayed in the wind, sword unwavering. With his fist, he snapped through the shafts in the arrows, leaving the arrowheads embedded in his flesh.

Once more, the commodore strolled forward. "That was a warning, general. Come or die."

The Thunder Lord gazed at the ash-darkened faces of the Lost Company surrounding him. There was no way out except surrender or death. Here he stood alone upon the wreckage of clay and barrels, the pool of naphtha spreading across the circle, mixing with the blood of the fallen. Smoke stuck heavily to the air and the acrid smell of witches' brew stung the general's nose. Blood leaked in rivulets around his arms and canvassed from his face. But just as much dripped from his sword.

He glanced beside him, and smiled. It was a terrible grin.

"Not one step back." Arcanum threw the sword into the commodore's chest. Before the rest of the foes could react, he pulled the burning torch from its stand. "Not one."

He let it fall.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	36. Marshall General Lawe Cathon

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Marshall General Lawe Cathon**

Somewhere, a massive explosion belched a tower of flames and a column of thick, black smoke into the air. Even at a distance, its shockwaves rippled through Cathon, until he had to take a knee to keep from toppling. But at its dying boom, the General turned his attention back to the last remnant of what once was the Band of Red Hand. Rallying to King Aemon's wolf banner before the South Gate, they were the last of the greatest standing army of the Covenant. All other traces of the sons of Manetheren were wiped away by the Trollocs swamping the skeleton forces at the crumpled Gates.

Aemon was the only force that stood between the survivors and utter rout. Flanked by his remaining contingent of Heart Guards and Handmaidens, his presence grounded his men around him. He was the last of the chain of command. The line captains were all dead or lost in chaos, and the only commands still obeyed were the ones issued forth from the King's mouth.

"Hold them! Rally for the stand!" His voice was utterly without trepidation, and his greatsword _Sanction_ raised as if to draw all eyes on him. Indeed, all manners of beasts roared towards him, but all broke before the rally.

Cathon fought at the King's side, the standard of the Red Hand gripped hard in his off-hand, where he had picked from the fallen bannersman. Men poured around them in a torrent, a knot of resistance in the flagging man.

A hand yanked Cathon back. The General spun his sword hard, but the man ducked and raised his hand in peace. It was the Royal Vizier, Ilak Didam. Who should be protecting Eldrene.

"You shouldn't be here!" Cathon shouted. "Where's the queen!"

"YOU MUST COME WITH ME!" Ilak shouted back.

"The King--"

"He is the only thing keeping the hammer back. Eldrene is going to attempt something foolhardy! I have no time to explain."

With that, the Vizier dragged Cathon from the boil of battle, "Come. She will not listen to me. She will listen to you."

They drew away, slipping through the soldiers, and into the fierce fighting within the Inner Gate. A squad of mounted soldiers appeared, leading two unmounted horses. They formed a perimeter around the two as they mounted.

"Listen." Vizier called as they broke away from the fighting into the city, four soldiers trailing their flanks. "She is going to try something that will endanger everyone and herself. I cannot convince her, and by her right, I cannot stop her. I should not be even talk to you about this. But, you must convince her off this quest of hers. The Queen is the Sword of Manetheren—as long as the sword remains whole, Manetheren cannot fall. You must convince her to leave with you."

"I do not understand."

"You do not have to. But, you do not want her to stay here in the city when it falls either."

Cathon kicked his horse, and they galloped hard through the cobblestone thoroughfare. He passed by houses where generations upon generations dwelled, but now were dark and empty. Furniture and belongings littered the ground, where they proved to heavy for the fleeing families and their wagons and animals. No matter how fast or far they rode, the din of battle followed them, the whispers of weapons and shields rolled leisurely down the abandoned road.

They galloped across Kae Boulevard, once the most majestic street of the modern world. Glamorous stores and the height of fashion, it now hung in bitter disarray. But, his eyes only found the rising towers and garrets of the Manetheren Palace. Ilak stopped his horse on the lawn, and dismounted with surprising gracefulness. Cathon stopped his horse within the gaping gates, and leaped off, his sword instantly in hand.

The front door was barred, but he kicked it down with no hesitation. The massive halls were as empty as the city, the echoes of his boots thundering through the massive vaults. Ilak took the lead, rushing through the resounding halls deep into the heart. The Vizier suddenly skidded to a stop in a high-vaulted atrium and pressed his hand against a large closed door.

"She is not here yet. She will be with the last refugees at the North Gate, but she will turn her eyes here soon. Find her and stop her before it's too late."

"And you?"

"I will faithfully perform my last duties as Vizier." Didam motioned the four soldiers beside him. "I will protect that which she seeks from falling into the hands of the Traitor to my last breath. Caldazar speed your horse."

Cathon dashed out, leaping over banisters. Time was against him now. He whistled as he skidded out the gate, and leaped on his approaching horse. Sweat sheaned through the stallion's manes, but he drove it hard.

They cut across the palatial lawn, leaping over hedges, and galloping hard towards the north. The curve of the North Gate twisted into view, along with the last refugees moving hurriedly through it. The sight of Queen Eldrene was unmistakable, her brilliant hair was instantly recognizable, and her familiar voice of command drifted towards Cathon as he neared.

"Hurry! We will not hold much longer." The queen picked up a little girl and handed her to her mother sitting at the back of a packed wagon.

"Eldrene!" Cathon called.

She turned and stared at him, "What are you doing here, Lawe?"

"I'm to be your escort." Cathon neared her. He pointed at the receding wagons. "Come, we need to go."

"No, I can't." She frowned. "He asked you, didn't he? There's something I need to do. And I will not leave without Aemon."

"No, Eldrene." Cathon leaped down. "We're leaving. Get on the horse."

She watched him carefully, sighing and pressing her hand over the steed's forehead. "Of course. I understand."

Cathon's guard suddenly rose. He knew her _too_ well. "My Queen…"

She jumped up on the horse, nudged the horse to lumber away.

"Come on, we must—ELDRENE!" Cathon reached for the suddenly galloping horse, managing to snag onto the back of the saddle. He was dragged through the cobblestone, until he managed to grab hold with his other hand.

"Sorry, Lawe. But I have to do this." Eldrene kept the horse galloping deeper into the city.

With a grunt, Cathon pulled himself up to an unwieldy perch at the back of the saddle.

"Let me explain. _Please_." Her words whipped past his ears.

"Talk fast." The General finally relented. She had earned at least that much.

"Don't get too comfortable back there…Thank you. I need to get to the Palace."

"The place would be over-run back now." They leaped over an overturned wagon, blocking the road.

"Listen, I do not have time to explain. On top of Sappron Tower is the most powerful _sa'angreal_ that we possess. If I could reach it, I could delay the Horde long enough for the survivors to escape."

The Sappron Tower. Cathon has not been up there often. But in the face of an invasion it seemed to be ludicrous. There was only one way in. One had to climb the Europo Tower, cross a long, open walkway to a five-inch thick Cuendillar-plated door that was locked, wherein one person in all of Manetheren had the key. The only times Cathon was up in the towers, he could not see what justified such security. Some ornate chairs sat in a circle around a glass table. The only notable parts of the room were the portraits of all the Queens of Manetheren on the walls of the room, and a single sheathed sword hanging between the portraits of Ieca and Sirsi. It dawned on him.

"The sword. Like _Callandar_?"

"You would be surprised how many things come in pairs."

"This is crazy. I cannot allow you to do this. Didam knew you would—"

"Have you ever been in love, Lawe?"

"I loved you. You might remember."

She stiffened in his grip, "Draw your sword now."

"What?" His sword cleared his sheath came in time to cut down a lunging Trolloc. Shadowspawn now dotted the streets, looting what had been left behind. Seeing the riders, they immediately converged on their position. Cathon dissuaded them of their pursuits permanently.

They broke through upon the main road, and instantly Trollocs clogged the road thick in battle with the last survivors, rallying around the figure of Aemon before the great Pool of Reflections at the steps of the Palace. Directly above were the towers of Sappron and Europo, the walkway a hundred stories above the fighting men.

"Hold the reigns on course. I need my hands free." Eldrene commanded, freeing both hands. Cathon snatched up the reigns with his free hand, his arm crooked tight around her waist. The queen had sent them barreling on a straight course towards the Palace, except for a thousand Trollocs that blocked the way, turning towards the noise of the galloping horse.

He brought his sword to bear to a cavalier's charge. A futile gesture considering the numbers turning to meet them.

Elderene circled her hands, and the air above them seem to twist and shrink with a crackle. A wall-like construct of bluish hue formed before their horse. Her hands pushed forward, and the wall lumbered ahead with unbelievable speed. It smashed through the Trollocs, crushing any who stood in the way, and sending the rest tumbling back. It chewed a path for the horse, which leaped over broken bodies.

The King's voice suddenly shouted, "Eldrene! No!"

"The window!" Eldrene ignored the shout. "There are too many at the gates."

They charged through the disappearing blue shield, cut down the last of the Trollocs in the way. Cathon braced himself and Eldrene and gave a hard yank on the reign. The stallion leaped above the embankment, its hooves smashing through the glass. Shards flew in a spray, and they landed hard. The horse stumbled on its landing, upending Cathon and Eldrene.

He rolled across the marble floor, glass crunching beneath his weight. He twisted to his feet, seeing Eldrene already beside him. The Hall of Triumph was in disarray, the murals and statuettes shattered. The ground was littered with debris and shattered chandeliers. The looting Trollocs had already turned their attention on the two. Behind them, Trollocs were smashing through the glasses to follow.

"Move!" Eldrene shouted, her hands flew apart. Trollocs smashed into walls as if they were toys, with splintering cracks of wood and bones. Through the gap Elderene raced, one hand lifting up her dress. Cathon followed immediately behind him, swinging at any Trollocs bearing too close.

The marble hallway broke way into the large Atrium Forsa, fortunately empty of any shadowspawn. Elderen turned towards the Trollocs charging from the hallway, and brought the entire ceiling down on their heads with a single gesture. A thick cloud of dust and mortar filled the atrium.

Cathon was already at the now open entrance towards the Europa Stairway. The door was clogged with red-cloaked bodies, and he climbed over with increasing alarm. He glanced up at the long circular stairway, and called out, "It's clear."

Eldrene was instantly behind him, her eyes sweeping up across the tower. "They're here."

"My queen…I had hoped you would not…" A soft murmur called. Eldrene kneeled down towards a body easily distinguishable among the red-cloaked bodies. It was the Vizier, Ilak Didam, blood seeping from his mouth and wounds across his chest. The Vizier turned a baleful eye towards Cathon and back to Eldrene. "The key…" He reached towards his chest, and unsteadily pulled out a single silver key.

"You have done well, my friend." Her voice cracked. She had her back to Cathon, but he could tell she was shaking. The Vizier was her tutor and a confidante, and had stood by her side longer than even Aemon.

Cathon grimaced, but placed a hand on her shoulder, "We must go."

When she stood up, Ilak's eyes were closed and the key-and-chain was wrapped tightly around her fist. Her eyes were slightly red, but a mask has set over her face once more. She nodded.

They glided up the finely crafted stairs, their footsteps echoing up through the curved tower. Cathon suddenly reached and grabbed Eldrene, pulling her back as an arrow stabbed into the wall ahead. More arrows etched through the air, but none hit close.

Cathon crouched and stared up, looking for the assailants. He could only catch flashes of red in the shadows of the dimly lit stairway. "Lost Company. You think Vanigan…"

"No. He's not here yet." Eldrene replied. "Not yet. His men are delaying us. Shut up and close your eyes."

Cathon immediately reacted, turning away as a column of brilliant light flashed through the center of the stairwell. Even with closed eyes, he could feel the light searing through his eyelids. Then it was gone, and there was a cloud of black dots in his eyes. Eldrene pulled on his shoulder and they were dashing up the stairs once more. No more arrows flew down.

As the ascended they passed huddled men, their eyes burned out. Hearing their footsteps, the blinded men lunged out, but were instantly dispatched by the general's merciless sword. Red-cloaked traitors smashed through the balconies, their screams bouncing erratically off the vaulted walls.

They came upon the final landing, with Eldrene taking the lead. An open door led towards the bridge that spanned Europa and Sappron.

Just as they approached the doorway, a flash of explosion shivered the walls. Eldrene pushed Cathon aside and dashed through. The general immediately recovered and followed two steps after.

A single Dreadlord stood on the bridge, his cloak rippling through the air. Not Vanigan, but one of his Lieutenants. Fire lanced through the air, but they unraveled into nothingness inches before meeting the smooth skin of Eldrene. Ominous blue rings coalesced around Eldrene, but she simply moved her hands, smashing them into crystalline motes that hung for a second in the air.

She never stopped moving, one hand reaching out. The Dreadlord was yanked into the air like a ragdoll, his eyes suddenly displaying fear. Cathon felt the anger rippling from Eldrene and was prepared for what she did.

Seized as if in giant arms, the Dreadlord gave a shrilling scream, then he was no longer one piece. Cathon felt chills running up his spines, but a look from Eldrene silenced him instantly.

Cathon looked down from the heights at the last rally of Manetheren. Directly below he could see the circle of red amongst the masses of black that clogged the squares and streets of the city.

"Lawe, we must do this." Eldrene bit her bottom lips, "You must hold them. Trust me. We will survive this."

And then she was dashing across the bridge towards the opposite tower. The doors opened, and she turned to give him a look, "He is coming." The doors descended close behind her, leaving the Marshall General standing alone over the heights, swaying in the winds.

Cathon gazed across the walkway, his steps slowly bringing him towards the middle. He glanced down at a shred of black cloth caught on the rough stone, dancing in the wind as if seeking escape. The wind wrapped around him, sending his cloaks flaring from his necks. He glanced down at the beleaguered men fighting in the Pool of Reflections. The once clear pool was blurred by growing blood. He glanced up at the Sappron Tower, towards the spherical dome, wondering.

There was suddenly a hum in the air, a vibration that Cathon felt in his mind. Whatever Eldrene was doing, it was beginning. The tower itself appeared to glow faintly.

It was also drawing attention. Not a full minute after, a Trolloc appeared in the doorway. It hesitated for a moment at the walkway, but charged Cathon. The General killed him with a single blow, sending him plummeting off the edge.

"Akeros di se'gar." He quoted the beginning passage of the Akrosian Cycle. So guards Akeros. The greatest warrior of history was not Jearom the Lord of Blades, nor was it Biruk the Wielder. It was Akeros, who had bested both Jearom and Biruk. For Akeros is the gatekeeper of the veil of death, and no mortal warrior could beat him. The Reaper himself.

"Akeros di se'gar." He repeated, as Trollocs ascended the towers, falling upon him in a never-ending flood. But he was Death incarnate and he cast them down from the heights, until Trollocs were falling from the sky like a thin hail. He briefly wondered what the defenders below would think of that.

Then it began. Pillars of brilliant, clear light cracked through the ground all around him, instantly incinerating Trollocs within their area. Rocks and debris fountained up to almost the height of the bridge. But the gaps left by these devastations were almost instantly filled by more Trollocs rushing into the city.

A fade took the bridge against him, its ebony sword snaking towards him. Cathon blocked thrice, took its hand off, and sent it clawing off the side.

Plumes of light began to multiply across the city, leaving trails of shredded bodies wherever it ascended. Buildings shattered into dust and Trollocs to bone.

There was a pause on the bridge. No more spawns exited the doorway, but the general did not stand easy. He simply gazed down at the dwindling circle of men, watching as it crumpled, soldier by soldier.

A motion at the door drew his attention. It was a familiar man.

"Nathen! Why are you doing here?" Cathon lowered his sword, as his adjutant approached in a staggered manner. "Where is Airene? WHAT HAPPENED!"

"Sir. General, I'm sorry." Austern walked towards the general in an awkward manner. "I am terribly sorry."

The adjutant lunged, a hidden dagger flashing. Cathon twisted, and felt the cold of steel cutting into his sides. Pain flashed through the back of his head, but he backhanded Nathen hard. He followed with a smash to the face, throwing the adjutant off the walkway, where he barely caught to the edge with his fingers.

"Why?" Cathon groaned as he pulled the dagger from his side and tossed it spinning away. Was there something on the blade? He was feeling dizzy. "WHY?"

Austern lost his grip, but Cathon grabbed his arm.

"Please!" Austern pleaded.

Cathon looked down at the dangling adjutant, feeling the sting of the pulsing wound. This was the man that had saved his life more times than he could count. The man that he had trusted more intimately than even himself.

Cathon let him drop. The parting cry was that of anguish.

"Well done." A smooth baritone voice flowed from the opposite side. Cathon did not need to look up to know it belonged to one Piotor Vanigan. The Traitor.

There he stood, inky cloak twirling dramatically in the breeze, face utterly unperturbed by the explosions shaking the city.

"You can not pass, Dreadlord." Cathon stood, Austern's scream still echoing in his mind.

"Lawe…" Vanigan gave him a sad smile. "Stand down, for I do not want to hurt you."

Cathon raised his sword in reply.

"I am not an unreasonable man, Lawe." Vanigan called. "You were the only one who voted in my defense at the Circle of Judgment. I owe you for that."

"Look where that got us." Cathon gestured at the Trollocs swarming through the city, and the pillars of white fire cutting through them.

Vanigan gazed up at the glowing sphere of Sappron Tower. "I have your Aes Sedai. Your adjutant brought her right to my steps."

Cathon clamped his teeth shut. Impossible! He was bluffing.

"Stand aside, and you and your little witch can pass safely. This is as lenient as I will be."

The Marshall-General knew the Dreadlord was sincere. Vanigan was good at lying, but he was even better at the truth. The latter was always infinitely more appealing. Vanigan was a traitor, but he was fiercely protective of his perceived honor. He would kill a person at a whim, but if he had owed him money, he would stick his dues in the corpse's pocket.

"DECIDE!" Vanigan shouted, his voice slicing through the din of explosions.

"I choose Manetheren." Cathon bowed his head in a calmness that shielded his internal fury.

"YIELD!"

"No." A fireball instantly punctuated Cathon's reply, washing across the bridge in a wave of heat. Then, it twisted and imploded into a tiny stream of fire that flowed into the fox-head medallion on the General's chest. A chill soaked through his shirt.

Vanigan's eyes burned with hate. "That won't save you." A darkly gloved hand reached into a pouch and tossed three glimmering items across the bridge. Three foxheads on shattered chains stared up at Cathon. Every one of them was etched with blood.

Vanigan raised his blade, a Lord's Sword that could be a twin to Cathon's. Both swords were of the finest steel breed, folded and smithed to only Manetheren perfection. Both were given as the final mark of a First Lord, the final reward for passing of the Lord's Trials. Only two men in the history of the nation had passed the Trials with perfection—two of them stood facing each other upon a windy bridge. There were no marks upon either swords—no heron marks nor sigils of honor—for the sword itself was proof enough of their caliber.

In unison, they detached their cloaks, letting the wind whip them from their hands. Red and black cloaks flew through the air, for a moment, twisting together in an embrace before separating and carried away into the distance.

"Hie, First Lord of Manetheren." Vanigan saluted with his sword in tradition. Cathon did not reply, his blade unmoving. Vanigan's eyes flashed at the insult, and his faced tightened.

The Dreadlord charged.

Vanigan did not have the speed of a Fade, nor the power of a Trolloc, but he moved like a blur of liquid that was nigh unstoppable. He was not a man, but a force of nature.

Two Lord's Swords collided with a flash of blue sparks and a ringing clang that shivered through the air. They met again in a forbidden practice. Never could one Lord's Sword be drawn against another, an anathema second only to raising a hand against one's King.

Nothing mattered now to Cathon. The wound at his side was a numbness and the wind in his face was a dull whisper. He did not feel nor care about the flashing explosions of light that was smashing the Trollocs to pieces. He no longer remembered the bedraggled soldiers below, dropping one by one. Only the man Vanigan mattered. Him and his sword.

Vanigan and Cathon were almost equal in the swords. Vanigan had earned his Lord's Sword earlier, but that slight advantage has long been overcome. The Dreadlord favored fast strikes and hard pushes, while Cathon favored gambles and feints.

To a soldier glancing up below, the battle above seemed frantic but almost insignificant. Upon the bridge, swords crossed in a whirlwind of sparks, both pressing forward and back with no gain. And both would be almost completely forgotten in the blazing light emanating from Sappron Tower.

"You are a fool, Lawe." Vanigan sliced a groove through the bridge as Cathon dodged away. "She will not leave until the King has left. And he will not leave until she has. An idiot's gambit."

Cathon did not reply, beating at Vanigan's defense with stone demeanor. He would not be baited.

"I will enjoy breaking Ellisende as much as I enjoyed breaking the witch." Vanigan hissed into Cathon's face as they forced their swords together. "You have _very_ good taste."

Cathon threw him back and hammered at his sword, but the Dreadlord deflected each hit with casual snaps of his blade.

The bridge lurched as the blazing sphere above Sappron Tower increased its tempo. The city was almost encased in a blazing pillar of blue light that began to chew through Trollocs faster than they could fill. Vanigan glanced up at the tower, worry finally setting on his face.

"Enough of this!" The Dreadlord pushed at Cathon with hard blows. And then Cathon's sword began to glow red. Heat poured instantly through the hilt, digging with pain into the general's palms. Vanigan couldn't channel on Cathon, but his sword was not immune. The Marshall-General held desperately to his sword as he warded off blows, but every inch of his skin and brain shouted at him to let go of the excruciating object.

Pain overloaded his system. He did not remember the sword flying from his hand, nor the fist slamming into his face, knocking him to the ground. But, in his fog of pain, he looked up and felt new pain slicing through his guts. Vanigan stared down with hard eyes and drew his sword up again. Cathon tried to move, but his arms were failing him. The sword came down through his chest, cutting through his lungs, and he felt blood flowing in.

Vanigan cut through the chains on his Shell of Caldazar and snapped the medallion away. As soon as it left, he could feel vibrations in his head, deep resonance emanating from Sappron Tower. Vanigan raised his sword again, and his foggy state, Cathon felt time seem to slip away slowly.

And then a blast of anguish and emotions stabbed into his head. He recognized the very essence of his Queen. Vanigan himself lurched. Cathon swam against the sea of darkness, pulling at the strands of power flowing from the One Power.

He saw it. He felt it. And he knew her anguish. He felt the death as if he was there. The undeniable face of Aemon finally falling hard into the waters of the Pool. Fades flowed over him, and swords came down in a blitzkrieg of fire. Pain coursed through the bond between Airene shattering their link. Fragments of red and black crackled from Sappron Tower.

"NO!" Vanigan's voice was a soft murmur against the roar in Cathon's mind. The Dreadlord stumbled towards the Sappron Tower.

Cathon tugged at the cords of power in his mind, his burnt hand finding the shape of an obsidian dagger on his belt. An obsidian dagger that bore a tiny red hand. Through the black veil of death, he grasped the black dagger. Excruciating pain stabbed through his nerve-shattered palm, pain that yanked him briefly from the cloudy embrace of unconsciousness.

He struck at the back of Vanigan, slicing into his kidneys, bringing the Dreadlord to his knees. Feeling the drain of blood and oxygen, he launched himself at Vanigan with a silent roar. He smashed into his nemesis, his last weight and energy carrying them both over the brink of the bridge.

As he fell, his vision darkened and his senses dulled away towards nothingness. He did not hear the shriek of Vanigan. He no longer felt the uncontrolled anguish of Airene. He was too far gone. His lungs filled with blood and shock locked his muscles.

Two falling bodies crashed into the red waters of the Pool of Reflections.

There was peace.

There was a pause.

For a single heart beat.

The city erupted into a single pillar of white light.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	37. Epilogue

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

**Epilogue**

It began as a simple rumble that shook the road beneath their feet. Wagons swayed and creaked, with the rufugees grabbed onto any support they could.

"What's going on now?" One of the women called, trying to calm her screaming baby. The rumble didn't help the feeling of despair and confusion that so permeated the fleeing citizens. Noone knew where to go, just that they had to put distance between them and the city. Some said to head across the mountains into Safer, others to the abandoned fortresses at Marena's Line, but noone took charge.

"I don't know. I wish I did." Cordin replied with the only answer he truthfully knew.

The wagons were loaded with women clutching their children and old men that could not walk by themselves, along with the last belongings of their lives. One man with no legs had seized a battered lyre, and in a crackled and battered voice, was softly singing a song.

"_Fire and thunder smote the field,_

_But the Band stood still beneath,_

_The air hissed with a mighty crackle,_

_Of steel from leather sheath."_

The man's voice was not the best, but Cordin had to admit it had a calming effect on the desperate people running for their lives.

The earth began to shake, as rocks begin to drizzle down the sides of the pass. "I think we better hurry up." He shouted towards the lead wagons.

He turned to glance across the distance at the fading city, at the curious lights in the sky. At the glowing sphere that seemed to rise upon the city.

Then it was instantly gone, consumed by a burning white pillar that burned at his eyes. Then the shockwave hit, knocking the young soldier sprawling back. Screams were all around him, and rocks from the pass showered down all around them. Cordin felt at the wetness on his head and blinked at the blood on his hand.

He dizzily stood up, glancing at the overturned wagons and the screaming people. He turned to the city.

Ruin met his eyes. Black, scorched debris was all that left of the magnificent jewel of the world, the cradle of their civilization, a hole carved into the Misty Mountains. Then, rocks fell in a thunderous clap, burying it in a hail.

Cordin felt weak on his knees, and it wasn't from the blood loss.

"Manetheren." The soldier's mouth was dry. He felt a wariness. He drew his sword, feeling wetness from his eyes. He breathed in the stale lines of steel then stabbed the blade into the earth. From around his shoulder, he removed his cloak, casting it about the cross of the hilt.

"_Carai an Manetheren_." Cordin whispered. It was not a fitting funeral. Not for the men that died and the memories and dreams purged. But, it was the only funeral they could have. There was no time to mourn.

He turned his back on the buried city. "Come! Get those wagons up! Move on!"

And the people broke away from the awe and terror of the sight. Heavy though their bones, they bore their weight once more, away from lives lost and squandered. And one man found a battered lyre from the rubble once more, and a soft sound drifted through the pass, until its chords too was lost.

"_The Battle Lost, but the War won.  
The Band died, but live e'er on.  
The Shadow halted, drowned in blood,  
washed away by Manetheren flood_."

"_The Old Blood sings of a mighty Band,_

_The infamous guardians of the Land._

_The Dark One 'self felt the bite of the Thorn,_

_The bravest souls whom ever born._

_Forever live those bold Red Hand__**! **_"

_The Battle of Manetheren would mark the last major campaign of the Trolloc Wars. The Band of the Red Hand had finally been vanquished by the Black Flood, but in Ellisende's heartbreak, had completely destroyed every single taint that stepped on her soil, tragically along with herself. At the end of the battle, hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children were dead, marking the fall of the great nation of Manetheren, to follow in the wake of Jaramide, Aramaelle, Aridhol, and Coremanda. From its start at the betrayal of Barsine to its end at the betrayal of Manetheren, the Trolloc Wars between the Covenant and the Horde lasted over three hundred years, leaving millions dead and the Covenant of Nations shattered. Not a single nation survived the final moments of the war. Even mighty Tar Valon felt the echoes of war, as Tetsuan, the Amyrlin Seat, was deposed along with over a third of the Aes Sedai for their crimes. The survivors of Manetheren would disappear into a deep slumber, utterly lost in the great tapestry of time. That is, until the General and the Wolf King rise once more._

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ


	38. Afterword

So, this is the end of a very long process. This story took me approximately one long year to write, and is actually the only piece that I have finished. I am a dabbler by nature and easily distracted, so this is a fairly pivotal achievement.

I give much credit to the source material. The Band of Red Hand lends itself to very good draw. This storyboard I created for this piece would have stretched this to almost five times the length. But for pacing purposes, I left many scenes on the cutting room floor. Poor Reimos took the brunt, such as losing most of his history with Zira.

I stayed to the canon as much as possible, but I did take some artistic liberties required of any literary endeaver--such as the battle of Bekkar. But after all, in the hundreds of years since the Trolloc Wars, stories and memories change and get distorted.

So, this is my final version. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing (and finishing) it.

Carai an caldazar! Carai an ellisande! Al ellisande!


	39. Appendix

**Appendices**

_Dramatis Personae_  
**Aemon al Caar al Thorin**. King of Manetheren and Warder to Eldrene. His crest is the Wolfhead.  
**Airene Andalusa**. Aes Sedai. Yellow Ajah.  
**Amarak Cysil**. First Lord of Manetheren. Marshall-General. Grand-Legion of Jara-Copan-No-More. His banner is the wolf spider.

Caar al Thorin al Arad. Abdicated Prince of Manetheren. Father of Aemon. His crest is the Wolfhead.

**Cordin Brogan**. NC. Eldrene's Company.  
**Cydin Blake**. Captain. Thunder Legion.  
**Diest Arcanum the Thunder Lord**. Third Lord of Manetheren. Lieutenant General. Thunder Legion. His crest is the Thunderbolt.  
**Drogan Tryth**. Major General, prom. Lt. General. 50th Light Infantry Banner.  
**Drov Borsy**. Major. Chief of Engineer Corps. HQ Legion.  
**Eldrene ay Ellan ay Carlan**. Queen of Manetheren.  
**Jot Diadrem**. Major General. True Blade Legion.  
**Jorj Reimos**. Staff sergeant. 2nd Light Infantry Banner. Father of Stef Reimos.  
**Lawe Cathon**. First Lord of Manetheren. Marshall-General. Band of Red Hand. His crest is the Boarhound.  
**Leis Nosi**. Captain. Deputy Chief of the Engineer Corps.  
**Nathen Austern**. Colonel. Adjutant to Marshall-General Lawe Cathon.

**Piotor Vanigan**. Dreadlord of the Black Horde. Once a First Lord of Manetheren.

**Sanus Higorn**. Sergeant, discharged with Honor. Manetheren Palace Service Staff. Retired.  
**Seth "Fist" Notar**. Lieutenant General. Black Moon Legion.  
**Stef Reimos**. Sergeant. Eldrene's Company. Son of Jorj Reimos.  
**Stren "Bastion" Vader**. Second Lord of Manetheren. Lieutenant General. First Legion.  
**Tayren Suturb**. NC. Eldrene's Company.  
**Toreg Donahin**. First Lord of Manetheren. Marshall-General. Grand-Legion of the Manatherendrelle. His banner is the White Striped Hawk.  
**"Warder"**. Gaidin to Airene Andalusa.

**Zira Coutir**. Nurse. Manetheren Palace Post-Procedure Recovery.

**Glossary**  
_Aramaelle._ One of the Ten Nations of the Covenant, situated in present-day Shienar, Arafel and Malkier. One of the bloodiest battlefields of the Trolloc War, devastating much of the country. Its cities include Mafal Dadaranell (capital), Anolle'sanna, Cuebiyarsande, Rhahime Naille. Its banner is the Two Herons.

_Band of Red Hand_. A colloquial term describing a set of military groups found in Manetheren during the time of the Trolloc Wars. The most documented is the Grand-Legion of Manetheren, under the command of a First Lord of Manetheren, Lawe Cathon. The Band ascribed to the Legion System prevalent in the times, with a grand-legion, sectioned down to: legion, banner, battle battalion, company or battery, platoon, squad, and detachment. Much of the officers were of Manetheren nobility, but war casualty often caused commoners to rise to power. The banner was the Red Hand.

_Bashere Gambit_. A calvary tactic employed heavily by its creator, Nonoc Bashere, Immortal-turned-Partisan, the ancient ancestor of the current Bashere lineage.

_Blasted Lands_. The Northern Areas controlled by the Shadow. Much of it is now known as the modern Blight, and the modern term referring to the desolate area beyond the Great Blight.

_Butcher Bug_. A creature of the Blasted Land. An arachnid known for its molecule-thin silk strand which will cut up anything that touches it. Now believed to be extinct. See also _Stick_.

_Caldazar_. The mythical Red Eagle of Manetheren, and a significant entity in Manethren history and culture. Also the Banner of Manetheren.

Caar One-Hand. Once a royal prince of Manetheren, he is a symbol of tragedy. He was sent on a diplomatic mission to return the rogue nation of Aridhol back to the Covenant. But, he was imprisoned by the corrupted King. When men was sent to rescue him, Aridhol was abandoned and the Prince was gone. Caar had escaped, but at the cost of one hand. He met his demise to his tragic love Rhea.

_Covenant of Nations_. The ten nations united after the Breaking, but whose signatories still fought among themselves. They were unified at the Trolloc Wars. The banner is the Shield of the Covenant.

_Day of Umbri_. The date of a solar eclipse during the reign of Queen Sorella ay Marena.

_Getty, Dravo_. Explorer of history. Much of his maps are now lost today. Disappeared into the Blasted Lands. The hero of the contemporary Jain Farstrider.

_Jaramide_. One of the Ten Nations of the Covenant, situated in present-day Saldaea and Arad Doman. Over-run by the Trollocs early on, they turned to partisan tactics for much of the rest of the war. Its banner is the Firedrake.

_Manetheren_. One of the Ten Nations of the Covenant, situated in present-day Two Rivers and Ghealdan. It hold a bitter rivalry with Safer, the most recent incident dating to Aedomon's invasion. Its major cities include Manetheren (the capital), Coratheren, Jara'copan (not the original fabled Jara'copan), and Shanaine. It was ruled by King Aemon and Queen Eldrene at its Fall. Its hierarchy is the King, First Lords, Second Lords, Third Lords, and the Less Lords. Its banner is the Caldazar.

_Mountain of Dhorom_. Named after the Sentinel Gais Dhorom, it is now known as the Mountains of Dhoom.

_Nightstalkers_. Shadowspawn of the creature that lived during the time of the Trolloc Wars. Much of the records of them were lost, but they are believed to be extinct.

_Old Tongue_. The prevalent language used during the Trolloc Wars, which is now used as symbols of learning and nobility. Much of Old Tongue had degenerated into the present language. For example, the Manetheren noble surname of Aemon has been dialectized into Emond, as Cathon has been dialectized into Caden or Cauthon.

_Order of Black Moon_. A sect of empty-handed warriors residing in Aelgar. They lived in the Monastery of Black Moon. Their leader is the Master of the Order. In the Trolloc Wars, they offered their services in training soldiers for battle. They survived the Trolloc Wars with the Monastery acting effectively as a independent city-state, until they were crushed in the Moon's Rebellion by the forces of Hawkwing's rising empire.

_Phantom Blades_. A shadowspawn now known as modern Greymen. They were once mortals that give up their souls to become assasins. To their quarry, the phantom blade appears to be a normal human, which they eyes appears to slip past. The victim, no matter how alert, usually only notices after the dagger is placed through their heart.

_Safer_. One of the Ten Nations of the Covenant, situated in present-day Toman Head. A rival of Manetheren, which considers it a barbarian country. it employs the Phalanxes style of armies, equipped with deadly eassiras. They boast the largest sea-born navy consisting of their fearsome Saferi War Galleons. Its banner is the Coiled Serpent.

_Shayol Ghul_. Also known as the Black Bastion, it remains the heart of the Shadow's power, but also the Dark One's prison, said to have been trapped there by the Creator at the Beginning. However, thin cracks in the seal of his prison allows him to influence his armies and even the world.

_Sorella ay Marena_. Queen of Manetheren at the signing of the Covenant of the Ten Nations. A powerful figure in Manetheren history, her actions and adventures in her rule had reached legendary proportion.

_Steel_. The secrets to steel was only known to the Manetheren Legions and the Saferi Phalanxes at the beginning of the Trolloc Wars. However, the technique quickly migrated to many of the other Covenant countries, and was stolen by a Darkfriend for use by the Black Horde.

_Stick_. A creature of the Blasted Lands. Known for injecting its victims with powerful digestive juices, that will slowly dissolve its prey as it lives. See also _Butcher Bug_.

_Three Idylls._ The three spirits of Honor, Valor, and Liberty. It epitomizes the central tenets of Manetheren ideology, and have been personified in many mythology to be beautiful deities armed respectively with a shield, a sword, and a torch.


End file.
